Lint
33 lint Suddenly we find ourselves doing the laundry. Here is the box of Tide, and the basement smelling dankly of pragmatic life. Well, I think, that’s why you have a basement. The pragmatic dankness of life you must have if elsewhere there is to be sublimity. And so we are here, with the Tide’s difficult opening spout, and here is also Bounce to prevent static cling. In our marriage there will be no static cling. And now we are sorting whites and colors. This we are doing, and it is our life. What led to this happened three years earlier and involved moon-park-wine. Moonlight on breasts, a certain thrilling fear of the park security guy in his pickup, and a sense that nothing remotely like this particular event on the blanket had ever before occurred in our galaxy. We rode that river of stars right here to the basement dankness and the Tide, which I am now measuring out. And now I am cleaning the lint filter of its lint, which is very satisfying, and I throw the lint clump into the trash can, even though the lint itself is the palpable bond of our union, our clothes whirling together and mingling, our selves, our very lives, becoming lint. ...
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