15.10.03
There is a lot I want to say this week, but I am not going to. I am not sure I could write it without succumbing to anger. I am not sure I would be fair. It is a delicate subject, and I am not in a delicate mood. I am in a blunt mood. So here is a blunt poem.
*Untitled*
Carrie is runing across the roof.
The soles of her plastic high-tops
are beating down on the smooth concrete in slaps and smacks.
When she reaches the ledge at the end of the roof
she does not stop.
The reason for her existence,
for her being here in this place
and in this time,
is one beyond our ability to communicate.
In seeking to express it
we have only fumbling descriptions,
awkward sentences,
and Carrie, running, and not stopping at the ledge
because she knows a secret and a truth.
*Untitled*
Carrie is runing across the roof.
The soles of her plastic high-tops
are beating down on the smooth concrete in slaps and smacks.
When she reaches the ledge at the end of the roof
she does not stop.
The reason for her existence,
for her being here in this place
and in this time,
is one beyond our ability to communicate.
In seeking to express it
we have only fumbling descriptions,
awkward sentences,
and Carrie, running, and not stopping at the ledge
because she knows a secret and a truth.
