Tuesday, August 30, 2005


The flower pod, green-white, hand sized, bloomed at night. As the dead increased, the world of objects seemed more dense, different from when our child-days draggedor a sunflower's face, which, once arrived, was heaviness itself. And it was different fromparenting, when days were thick, years thin, or a poppy with a stem. There were more cadences ascending and descending nearer by. We saw one of us not reachthe hand-sized pod before it broke into the mouth of an ordinary night, though the hand reached toward, as if a touch would enter it, end it, or as though by touching what was strange there was relief in being plain, or one might love to cause an opening as when a blade cuts under blades of grass, or words are said, or if a mouth opens another mouth. We saw the hand fly back, the trumpet petals curl. It was perverse to be afraid; when the scent began, one leaned in again.


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