Friday, October 22, 2010

Thousand: One Hundred Seventy-One

over a wing at you, flashes a white underlid over its black eye, says, “Raak! Raak! Raak!” and wanders off among the condiments. You take a step backward and bump into the youth who slipped out of the drinks stand to wipe down the tables. “Oh! I’m sorry,” you say. “You will have to forgive me. It was what I wanted least to do in this world. The day will come when the Lord returns in glory, flames of gold cushioning his naked soles, sparrows carrying a pot of tea, his eyeglasses of purest rose, and I will be forced

1 comment:

Elisabeth said...

Exquisite, Glenn, for its resonance and poetic detail.

I keep wondering however do you write this? I'm forever curious about what comes before and what after.

You play with absences effectively, hauntingly, wonderfully. Thanks.