| so much depends
upon
a red wheel
barrow
glazed with rain
water
beside the white
chickens
William Carlos Williams, 1923. |
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| There sat down, once a thing on Henry's heart
só heavy, if he had a hundred years
& more, & weeping, sleepless, in all them time
Henry could not make good.
Starts again always in Henry's ears
the little cough somewhere, an odour, a chime.
And there is another thing he has in mind
like a grave Sienese face a thousand years
would fail to blur the still profiled reproach of. Ghastly,
with open eyes, he attends, blind.
All the bells say: too late. This is not for tears;
thinking.
But never did Henry, as he thought he did,
end anyone and hacks her body up
and hide the pieces, where they may be found.
He knows: he went over everyone, & nobody's missing.
Often he reckons, in the dawn, them up.
Nobody is ever missing. |
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| It's dry in our room this time of year. We've filled a pot with water and let it evaporate away to humidify the room, and we added cinnamon and apples so it emits a pleasant autumnal aroma.
One more day of classes until Fall Break--I'm going to a large house in the woods by a lake in the Poconos.
Sarah came to visit this past weekend. Everything is going along just swimmingly. Even Tomás is cheerful and festive.
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| Colin Stayton is the featured artist at IndieMonday.com. |
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| A million things to write about.
Let's begin with what I had for lunch.
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