Friday, December 05, 2008

In the Book of the Disappearing Book - John Gallaher

It's a spring flowered dress that was her effacement.

On a train, and because of what windows do sometimes.
Her face is floating above the landscape
unaware.

I used to think that I was reporting my life to someone.
I was a radio.

I used to think things happening was unfolding.

The trees are blooming all through her
and there's no one to tell.

And the discipline of roads.
The icy discipline of to and from.

In the air of nothing, I used to think
I was understanding distance.

Green God, in your language of silences, tell me.

2 comments:

Eveningson said...
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Maree said...

I know, I so want to visit it that museum. Thanks for your kind words, but who can read Dawkins and love art and poetry and still love their species? There is a great deal to love, certainly, but it's specific and individual... the generalities tend to really be miserable.