I read a story that disturbed me, of a girl in Normandy over half a century ago, who was found standing in her bare feet at
the lapping of the sea; and sang a song which ended every verse with “O’ Lord let something remain.” With a lifted head,
facing the reaching waters. It doesn’t matter. I also woke this morning with a hate of beetles scrambling in my chest,
infesting what is left of my betweens. Embodying new measurements, and to the drumming of the train; true in my
hesitation and easy ability to be distracted, I could feel hate flocking in to raid my open spaces. Surprised I had open spaces,
left.
O dear god, i forgot what i was saying. It’s because this is public, so I call whomever “love”, and am deeply sorry for the
futile lack of him I ever had. Or maybe I shouldn’t apologize. I told the truth. I believe the mind is no great thing. I believe
the mind doesn’t know. I believe they will come to the conclusion that these cruel riddles are only fair. No matter if my new
place is no place at all. The riddle makes a room. In it you did not lift a finger, you did not hit back or even swing to try to
reach/ what happened. I should blind you for this Why is everyone so in love with the grass? It is winter now
and if you are not afraid
