augury doggerel

Sunday, February 09, 2003


Oh dear. I�m back on my perch, a fish in water, listening to three girlies sing along to the radiator: �And I [hold and elaborate upon this note for about a quarter of an hour] will always love you [this one, too]�. Another of a million slight variations on the only song ever written, sung by three slight variations of a million local folk.

But deer. That�s what I�ve been thinking of for some days. Deer and hare, fox and boar, and horses in the hard cold, snow blowing across fields, across my face. I�m having a hard time looking at these hind-legged strutters with the big lungs.

A friend�s friend�s father has died. Eventual news of us all. But the bartender fingers his buttons, boring his hours out. I drag ink, waste paper. We don�t know what to do with these curls of hours. What would we do with eternity?

The girls who sang have paid their bill and the bartender has cleared away.


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