Litera scripta manet, so we're told
but words written on the flesh
must move when the body moves;
words written on the heart
must beat.
The scrape of metal on stone fades
into silence. I almost think I will
set myself to unwrite every word –
my tongue at the corner of my mouth,
my pen filled with white ink; that I will carefully
trace every line you wrote,
until the words gleam only like
old scars, caught by a chance
change in light: weals of meaning
to be traced by a lover's hand.
It was small wonder, then, that he suddenly flung down his brush on the floor, said 'Bother!' and 'O blow!' and also 'Hang spring-cleaning!' and bolted out of the house without even waiting to put on his coat.
------------ Kenneth Grahame
Showing posts with label Friendship. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Friendship. Show all posts
Tuesday, October 01, 2013
Sunday, May 02, 2010
Little Suns
The flowers are yellow and orange. They burn like little suns: so much brighter than any room they're in. The people in the elevator notice them. They almost speak. I avoid their eyes.
I wait for you on the street. You pull the little Ford over, roll down the window. I hand you the flowers – she brought them for you. You exclaim over them, place them carefully on the floor of the passenger seat. A quick awkward kiss through the windowspace, and you drive away again. I go back to work.
The afterimage of the flowers in my retina. If I had looked at them too long I would have gone blind. You would think I could, but I can't say if the petals are orange with yellow edges or yellow with orange edges.
You wondered why love gets all the songs and poems: friendship, you said, was far more difficult than love.
This is my seventh blogday: imagine that! Seven years ago I set sail, determined to find the wealth of the Indies. Instead I have discovered America after America. I'm still guessing that the world is round, but it's much bigger than I thought.
The flowers are yellow and orange. They burn like little suns: so much brighter than any room they're in. The people in the elevator notice them. They almost speak. I avoid their eyes.
I wait for you on the street. You pull the little Ford over, roll down the window. I hand you the flowers – she brought them for you. You exclaim over them, place them carefully on the floor of the passenger seat. A quick awkward kiss through the windowspace, and you drive away again. I go back to work.
The afterimage of the flowers in my retina. If I had looked at them too long I would have gone blind. You would think I could, but I can't say if the petals are orange with yellow edges or yellow with orange edges.
You wondered why love gets all the songs and poems: friendship, you said, was far more difficult than love.
This is my seventh blogday: imagine that! Seven years ago I set sail, determined to find the wealth of the Indies. Instead I have discovered America after America. I'm still guessing that the world is round, but it's much bigger than I thought.
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