Time is a vandalentering the clam of the heart as though a grain of sand.It is our long irritation with itthat slowly forms the pearl of invention.The sensation of Time is an irritantwhich spurs the endeavors of man to an extension of the self —encompassing it with Spatial transformations.Emerging from the shell of nowthe arrival of the future crests upon the wave of this incursion...And if its shore I now could reach /I'd be a joyful jeweler.
From a single obsolete pagethe truth of time driftsacross the tarnished medium of a forgotten moment.The births / the funerals. —Children now grown & contracting themselvesinto the silent sentiments of uncertain shadowsreform upon the imagination / turning the currentof our lives into mere transgressions of the progresswe had hoped we had made. —Everything lost returning back again.From the faded headlines to the advertised figuresseparating the past from the jealous concerns of today /a moment of prolonged obsolescencereads interminably across the page.
That year the sea rose slowly from the plain / crashing intolife swollen as an infant. — A thing of its own shadowtraced out of the ripple. — Salt white over red sand passedfrom bosom into hand.Everything that year stopped seeking / stopped strugglingwith it’s fate.Things primal held in their primacy things with meaningsunknown before. — A fleet of sea-ships auspiciously set strewnupon the floors bind the time and the space to a strangeand distant sounding place. Where the bleeding tidefares a name and the breaking penumbra threads the swellingfurrows of the plain passed from bosom into red.
Dreams in the dusk,Only dreams closing the dayAnd with the day's close going backTo the gray things, the dark things.The far, deep things of dreamland.Dreams, only dreams in the dusk,Only the old remembered picturesOf lost days when the day's lossWrote in tears the heart's loss.Tears and loss and broken dreamsMay find your heart at dusk.
We talked as Girls do --Fond, and late --We speculated fair, on every subject, but the Grave --Of ours, none affair --We handled Destinies, as cool --As we -- Disposers -- be --And God, a Quiet PartyTo our Authority --But fondest, dwelt upon OurselfAs we eventual -- be --When Girls to Women, softly raisedWe -- occupy -- Degree --We parted with a contractTo cherish, and to writeBut Heaven made both, impossibleBefore another night.
I am not the black cat.There were four of us;my grandmother,a black cat,a myth,and I.My grandmother oftentold us a myth.When you are ill, she said,if a black catcomes and sits on your bedit means that youwill die soon.I was only six,seriously ill.Our black cat