Sometimes I feel I'm carrying on an illicit affair with Poetry. You know how that feels, right? Desire overwhelms and then the disciplined heart (or is it the mind?) intercepts and says: Dont! You can't possess her anyway!
And so Silk Egg sat on my coffee table as I got busy: a retreat, two book reviews, two syllabi, a walk in the woods, a romp on the beach at sunset, and traipsing here and there with friends.
But tonight I picked her up and took her to bed with me (I wouldn't be writing this otherwise, no?) And she just wouldn't let me go.
I had forgotten how sweet it is to get lost in the beauty of ....Words. These black dots on a page suddenly turning into a visual sensual orgasm of sort.
What is so special about Her birthland is replete with child soldiers? Just one sentence that would take a Nicholas Christof an entire NYT column to expound on. But say it once, say it again and ....
There's a reason why Sky is better than aspirin! because when one thinks of war, of refugees, of orphans, one thinks of the assumed amorality of maps. But for me those who draw maps succumb to manifest manners - a Rarefied pretense of empire mongers. Yes, I believe that in the rarefied air of the imperial City, radiance has absconded.
The rest of us are ushered into a Door not of our choosing; sometimes regretful but then acquiescing to the loosening of rain, rain rain.
After all, the heart is a pure animal.
When having an illicit affair, you don't allow yourself to drown in the headiness of it all.
You caress slowly to make time stand still.
Do not swallow Silk Egg in one night.
But who will stop me?
I have no remorse.
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