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{meaning of life #14} sean lovelace “I am unable to begin.” - Rainer Maria Rilke How birds navigate south. Or about time zones. Or how we shrug off bits of rust, ignore each other—lips, curl of, soul-flash of an eye—why we don’t all entangle. Is a third of our lives not enough, for sleep? A key-twist, a sputter; sloshing gray ambulance—but how? Unrealized magic. His long walks, snow as spiraling gauze. Oak limbs snap and tumble. When will they fall? He cannot say. His good friend is killed working an assembly line. By tumor of…His good friend is unemployed, and called to the front. He cracks apart a toaster and stares for hours. Springs, pinions, clutch; pricks his tongue on a copper coil. Is blood oil inside us, or language? Shades and faded grades of red. About soap, very little, but he lathers his body. Shudders, inhales; grips the showerhead. The world as February, with its low clouds, muffled thunder. His worried mother knits colorful sweaters, folds them neatly, and secrets them about the city (except in churches and brothels—he frequents neither). And so he freezes. |
