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.

Wednesday, June 28, 2023

Poem with a Bleating Heart

Once again it is fall all around usthere are sports teams prayingfor god to smite their opponentswhich you know I love like I lovethe idea of god walking dripless outof the ocean a monster no one can besure is here to protect or destroyour seaside cities and I love that we canscream whatever we want knowingit can be fixed later in the subtitlesand I love the scrub pine for lookingexactly how it sounds and I lovememory for continuing to be the pastwith a leak in it somehow I love youa little better every day surprised by iteach morning the way I am alwayssurprised by how goats make the soundof drunks making goat noises
 
--Robert Wood Lynn

 

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