|
A Man Climbs the Hill in Front of
His House, & Imagines a Mystery |
||
| This could not be what had been intended for him
since the day of his birth: flummery sky, pierced by crows, and the wind tossing them and the paste of air over its shoulder. If the wind were to scoop his mind clean as a bowl, would it be important? Really important, I mean, |
||
| as even insignificant facts about the world's
most desirable woman might be, confronted by a blustery, broad world? |
||
| Here's what he meant: Why did the day round up its fullness in her dress, at the top of the hill? Roll it out, oil upon water, as the wind rose? |
||
| And seem to take them each to a gland-tightening
coldness, as if the air had been hardening for years. |
||
|
|
||