And Her Soul Out Of Nothing

Should One Prefer Purity To Intensity of Soul?

Should One Prefer Purity To Intensity Of Soul? While you are gone, I keep the house quiet. Did I ever tell you, I once heard a woman speak of her loneliness as if it were a small bird. Imagine: her sorrow had a wingspan! A screaming saw tearing through the soundless space of this late summer day. And then, the beginnings of rain. I sit here, follow a schoolgirl walking home to undress her uniform sadness: a grey plaid kilt. The gentle faced dog next door at her picture window: it's not so much the view that has affected her thinking as the stubborn way the glass seems able to hold it. She has a soul as thick as steak. That's her master's misery spreading like red geranium against the dark blue house the light blue sky filling with the confetti of birds. Perhaps longing is just the heart changing its colors. I noticed you barely saw me this morning as I, barechested, ate my soft-boiled egg. And all day I have wanted to ask you ... Quiet afternoon, the thick red thatch covering in a fine netting of fluorescent moss, and then the rain 80 beginning to end. Don't worry. By the time you get here the window will be wide open. I will be naked, sound, asleep. ...