XIII
XIII I don’t remember that frail morning, how could I? No one wakes up thinking of a stranger, a life away, falling. I don’t recall the morning at all, as urgent or remarkable, though falling was somehow predictable, but only when you think of it later, falling is all you can do, as hereditary as thirst, and so of course he was thirsty, as I, craving a slake of baby’s breath, or bergamot, though we were not the same, god would not be sufficient for me, nor the ache and panic of a city surprising, but thirst I know, and falling, thirst for fragrant books, a waiting peace, for life, for just halting, so I could breathe an air less rancid, live, anonymously so no I don’t recall the day, why would I? Let alone, I’ve been busy with my own life, you have to be on your toes or else you’ll drown in the thought of your own diminishing, as I said I crave of course being human as he must have and she, but not to let it get away with you, don’t dwell too long, don’t stand still here, I skim, I desert, I break of the edges, I believe nothing, I dream but that’s free The Poetry of Dionne Brand / 15 ...
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