No Poem Is the Only Poem. No Story Is the Only Story.
I write with the tips of my fingers, extended through each digit from crackling knuckle, out from the wrist and down from the elbow, the shoulder, the neck and then the rotting brain, the brain, the mysterious box of rain that I can’t explain further.
One night I opened the back door and saw a possum wandering through my yard in a relaxed manner.
the day before they came back, shrouded in an untouchable truancy like martyrs suddenly sitting up on the battlefield somebody said the word lesbian: that was a word we all knew but had never thought to say, before. “let’s talk about that,” the new teacher said. let’s not, i thought. now I sit next to them in my dreams,
under the shaft of light, glowing like it used to.
‘I'm creating a pile that can reach heaven,’ explained Sanju.
‘Why?’ asked Chhotu as excitement gripped him.
‘I'll climb right to the top,’ said Sanju ‘and meet God.’
‘Meet Bhagwan!’ repeated Chhotu clapping his hands. Then he paused. ‘Why?’ asked Chhotu.
‘So that I can ask Him to make you less foolish,’ said Sanju feeling happy.
I was led to this book by David Frum's substantial YouTube channel. He sometimes reviews old books.
I hit upon the idea, derived from a phrase of James Merrill's, that I should pay attention to those writers that had the greatest deposits in their word banks.