The only lock of hair I have ever mourned is a silky strand—a baby’s purest blond, saved from the first cut of a daughter’s hair & preserved with a photo under glass.
The soldier wears a helmet shaped like a tortoise shell. He processes my papers. Tells me the reception hall is used for karate. On stage, I pick sagebrush off
Let’s begin with the paintings, Marc Chagall’s Rain, a surreal portrait of a farm in a Russian village— with strange dreamlike childlike forms of humans & animals—
For the first year, living off the heat of sagebrush, these were the things that kept us going: our faces as they are or were, hog black and shining, turned to bask in the slough of May crisp moonlight
Bi poly pan, is how a friend in Philosophy described me to me. I relay this as we watch late night in bed on your laptop. (The host unwinding a joke about loosening the lid on the stuck-fast jar of the spicy pickles of commitment.)
