It's time to bring up a past poem and hope for the arrival of the new. Paris is gray today, all because of my stupidity and a series of misunderstandings. Everything can be at once startlingly human and I, startlingly reactionary. Emotional, when I imagine a personality critique. The result is one maimed and taking the appearance of a statue, and the other wondering what deeper insecurity keeps an apology from being enough. I am sad at the reason my apology keeps bouncing back, acknowledged but unreceived. It was not that, never that, and you know this. When has it ever seemed likely or logical, well founded upon my actions...I can't imagine a moment that would give warrant...but the gray says otherwise and I feel lost. I'll go wade through Paris in the meantime and hope for clarity.


paradise was;

white we are, to white returning
and pecked lines grew into form, forgiven over-eager punctuation
and the melody fell as if governed by letter-gravity,
no attention to 'humanely'- no humanity in white sorts of attention,
and the moments of tidal hush,
about the arc of an earth
flux

plural we are, to plural returning
and pressing for the particulars of hunger
we have counted on this wilderness,
amidst arrivals and departures and ill-footed landings,
when everyone cries 'aberration' or other lazy branding,
we have counted on this wilderness

there is a slow emerging theme;
one I console,
until
It is always strange, always home

paradise we are, to paradise returning