selected past writing at 42opus
A longing lives inside the mind: both to be in the past
Where we weren't, but also to be the person
We are in the present living in that unrealized past. The moon
Is a paint bucket on its side. The moon is…
2 June 2004 | poetry
They flee from me that sometime did me seek
With naked foot, stalking in my chamber.
I have seen them gentle, tame, and meek,
That now are wild and do not remember
That sometime they put themself in danger
To take bread at my hand; and now they range,
Busily seeking with a continual change.
Maps are never skin. I know
that you're only a guide but
I prefer to pretend otherwise.
Might some young Einstein not re-fuse this bleak-appointed nucleus,
Retool its quarks, by Bunsen's blue-tongued flame, into Florida?
Pointer lay on the couch, fifty-eight pounds of eleven-year-old black lab mix with curly hair. She lay with her chin between her paws just like when she was sleeping, but I knew right away she wasn't sleeping.
"Hey, Pointer, kiddo," I said anyway. "Too hot to get up this morning?"
Pointer weighed seventy pounds just a couple of months earlier, but pancreatic cancer pared her down pretty fast. I hadn't really thought she'd be gone this soon, though. I picked her up off the couch and she didn't feel like Pointer, just like a big heavy sack of cooked oatmeal. I laid her down on the rag rug next to the coffee table.