I.
What I remember of the green depths
is not their unfathomable song, but
the silence which surrounded it.
II.
What I remember of the place where
the world has fallen into the sea:
a calm point between loss and hope,
the finite stretching into infinity.
III.
What I remember of the lake behind the barn
is golden light, an overexposed photograph
in motion. Robert laughing. What it meant
to be carefree.
Or I Give Myself Very Good Advice, But I Very Seldom Follow It. Echo lives in a basement apartment, walls softened with photos, posters and paintings--but only one of him, out of the way by the linen
Start with putting your ego on a longer leash; you can't let it go entirely--why write if not to tell yourself about yourself--but it mostly just gets in the way of getting anything done. Next, write.
The only mine I've ever known has been hard-fought, hard-won, all bloody knuckles and broken ribs, all set shoulders and subtle sneer-- won't take no for an answer, defiance the only way I know. It's