He never said, but he implied surgery. In drives. And in putts. There was a par he had in mind. Stitches in dead bears planned long before their arms had fallen off. In cautious undressings. Rehearsals of the catastrophe. We had labelled every hole. Dressed it in its tuxedo. And watched the limo pull away with it inside sipping a pertinent scotch.
He was over. And under. And everything inbewtween that keeps us young enough to expect. What we think we deserve. Or have earned. What we've dreamt about when the walls were quiet enough to hear me thinking about how dense they've become.
Paper dolls multiplying in cellars unattended. Paper dolls insisting I give them each a name. As if I ever knew from where they came.
The paper in those wastebaskets not mentioning. Not daring to refer to all ths people who had found. A way inside.
Sunday
12/24/2006 12:22:00 AM
Sad Labels:
friends
Your being in more than two places enchants me :)
If you acknowledge the holiday season, then happy holidays! Even on Christmas Eve, I find myself seaking the voice you put forth in your posts.
I will write about your words again, but for now I must smoke and wait for reindeer and my jolly old friend. I wish I were a child.
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