June 24, 2004

Black Stone 63

GREY LIGHT ON green leaves. Overcast sky, the house a wreck. Pick up shoes. Find a place for things. This morning I held Waylon while K stacked blocks. He watched my face with intent, uncoiling his body in my lap. Now I'm alone and want to write these few words, but there's so little to say. Quick flashes of the day vanish into nothing. Sound of the washing machine penetrates the room. Sound of the cup touching down on the table. The sudden stillness of being alone. This is the energy driving us. Pulled two ways, the inner and outer pressures. My life and others. In outrage and affection. Again, there's so little to say. Words come. A slight shift of tone deepens my wistful pursuit. Then come two interruptions. K runs down the hallway, naked and fast. Hear a hawk somewhere too, a distant high-pitched screech coming from down the creek.

These days come on full
charged, half hard half quiet.

Up. Pitter-patter. Bare feet
slap wood floor, growing

morning light through kitchen window.
He stands there pulling his penis.

Posted by Dale at June 24, 2004 03:22 PM
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