Ink Splattered Dreams: March 2011

Wednesday, March 23, 2011

The years shall run like rabbits —W. H. Auden

Tuesday, March 1, 2011

Let me tell you a story.

Promises Are Made Under Trees

Arrows Break Everything

Rain Makes It Colder

Once Upon a Time

A Large Number. Wislawa Szymborska

Four billion people on this earth,
but my imagination is the way it's always been:
bad with large numbers.
It is still moved by particularity.
It flits about the darkness like a flashlight beam,
disclosing only random faces,
while the rest go blindly by,
unthought of, unpitied.
...
My dreams—even they are not as populous as they should be.
There is more solitude in them than crowds or clamor.
Sometimes someone long dead will drop by for a bit.
A single hand turns a knob.
Annexes of echo overgrow the empty house.
I run from the threshold down into the quiet
valley seemingly no one's—an anachronism by now.

Where does all this space still in me come from—
that I don't know.