Wednesday, April 5, 2017

Bright Eyes

In the surf, I'm pushing out again. I hope She was right about all of this. I am not sure I trust this raft.

Thirsty, hungry in my dream. I awake and She has put a peach in my hand.

Long ago She warned me against his insolent stupidity, his pride in ignorance and bigotry and prerogative.  Now, She whispers: "Ask him: 'When was the last time you saw your wife or listened to Cassandra?' It will unmake him."

In Pacific Place, She and I watch the Children of the Sun, their brown eyes like sloes: trusting, herbivorous, doomed. "Don't worry. I don’t have any children either. They would be the terror of the earth."

At Elliott Bay Books, I can almost smell the copper in her bronze. I drift and she puts the right constellations in my hands for purchase. She has a keen eye in the remainders.

When I was younger, and found myself trapped on a barstool listening to his or his convincing lies, She always leaned over the bar and whispered. "And do you believe that?" "It depends" I sometimes answered.

She suggests turning the tables. "Go ahead, Drug him. Sharpen the stake in the fire. Gouge out his eye to get out of his bedroom."

She gets on the bus first and chooses a seat for us away from the man who peed himself.

The Horse was actually her idea.

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