from Slow FireLETTER HOME I can't write you because everything's wrong. Before dawn, crows swim from the cedars: black coffee calls them down, its bitter taste in my throat as they circle, raucous, huge. Questions with no place to land, they cruise yellow air above crickets snapping like struck matches. My house on fire, crows are the smoke. You've never left me. When you crossed the river you did not call my name. I stood in tall grass a long time, listening to birds hidden in reeds, their intricate songs. The grass will burn, the wrens, the river and the rain that falls on it. I can go nowhere else: everything I cannot bear is here. I must listen deeper. Sharpen my knife. Something has changed the angles of trees, their color. Do not wait to hear from me. I cannot write to you because this is what I will say. AGENDA Let’s build a house. Let’s build a bigger house. Let’s build a hundred very big houses in rows. No, closer. Okay, let’s sell them to each other, build another bunch. If we turn outdoors inside out, we’ll be in. Did you say something? Outdoors needs doors. In Xanadu did Kubla Khan. A man’s home is his palace, I mean a person’s house is his/her palace. The outdoors is great. Look at it through this window. It goes well with the rug doesn’t it? Do you think we need to change anything? What did you say? I thought I heard something. I thought we had a deal. You’re not sold on this one? Wait. The voice is louder. Voices. Do you think they want to buy? Maybe-- not. They’re saying something that sounds like earth, something that sounds like war. |
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