The palm at the end of the mind, beyond the last thought, rises in the bronze distance. A gold feathered bird sings in the palm, without human meaning, without human feeling, a foreign song. You know then that it is not the reason that makes us happy or unhappy.
The bird sings. Its feathers shine. The palm stands on the edge of space. The wind moves slowly in the branches. The bird's fire-fangled feathers dangle down.

Friday, November 14, 2014

When I Am Old

I'll have dewlaps and a hump and say what all the time
in a cross voice: on every one of my bony crony fingers
a ring. My lips painted with a slash of bright fuchsia,
I'll drink margaritas by the tumbler full and if my dealer
dies before I do, I'll just have to look for younger suppliers.
I can't imagine not being interested in sex, but if it happens,
so be it, really I could do with a rest, complete hormonelessness.
I may forget who I am and how to find my way home, but be
patient, remember I've always been more than a little confused
and never did have much of a sense of direction. If I'm completely
demented, I'm depending on friends: you know who you are.

 --Moyra Donaldson
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