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Screw spring. I'm the only thing not blooming. The arrowhead plant, so carelessly plotted, is growing godammit. Even the jonquils, brought for one dinner, are not quite dead. Under the bed the dust is as thick as wool on spring sheep, which are undoubtedly grazing where grass is growing at an enviable rate.
Screw spring. My boyfriend's taken to getting up early. He goes out to see plants pushing their way out of the ground, and flowering, and sits by some chartreuse tree in the sun, breathing air as sweet as berry wine, watching girls pass. Their faces are rested from sleeping alone all winter.
Screw spring. I wish it were winter, when the world's this one room. These walls, this bed do not grow.
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and Iâ
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
It's always endearing to let children debate war and policy while holding their bath toys thinking, all the while, that debate is good and civilized and so full of Sunday morning wisdom.
But war has no record of evolution, save it's weapons, it's bath toys and wide-eyed lambs still slaughter lions to keep their precious wool safe, unsullied while citing chapter and verse as prayer.
So we fiddle away the remaining daylight and throw out our babies with the bath water and toys while shouting Alleluias for the good guys, unknown to us really as they hide so well.
This entity I call my mind, this hive of restlessness, this wedge of want my mind calls self, this self which doubts so much and which keeps reaching, keeps referring, keeps aspiring, longing, towards some state from which ambiguity would be banished, uncertainty expunged;
this implement my mind and self imagine they might make together, which would have everything accessible to it, all our doings and undoings all at once before it, so it would have at last the right to bless, or blame, for without everything before you, all at once, how bless, how blame?
this capacity imagination, self and mind conceive might be the "soul," which would be able to regard such matters as creation and destruction, origin and extinction, of species, peoples, even families, even mine,
of equal consequence, and might finally solve the quandary of this thing of being, and this other thing of not;
these layers, these divisions, these meanings or the lack thereof, these fissures and abysses beside which I stumble, over which I reel: is the place, the space, they constitute, which I never satisfactorily experience but from which the fear I might be torn away appalls me, me, or what might most be me?
Even mine, I say, as if I might ever believe such a thing; bless and blame, I say, as though I could ever not. This ramshackle, this unwieldy, this jerry-built assemblage, this unfelt always felt disarray: is this the sum of me, is this where I'm meant to end, exactly where I started out?
âLove is a smoke made with the fume of sighs;
Being purg'd, a fire sparkling in lovers' eyes;
Being vex'd, a sea nourish'd with lovers' tears;
What is it else? A madness most discreet,
A choking gall, and a preserving sweet.â
âMy bounty is as boundless as the sea,
My love as deep; the more I give to thee,
The more I have, for both are infinite.â
