Imagining the gazebo . . . the afternoon wet with lemonade . . .
the all-but-naked doubts . . . cast aside . . .
Rummaging . . . then rummaging more . . .
Your Book of Days unfolding . . . its momentum abrupt . . .
This is a work of fiction . . .
Of course, you make your way through . . . to the last dot-com . . .
I can think of nothing . . . but the aftertaste . . .
the moments before you were up . . . and onto others . . .
Have you considered remapping . . . the palms of your hands? . . .
You too will be blind-copied . . . and shared . . .
deconstructed . . . longlisted . . . and all that . . .
Perhaps . . . some day . . . you will revisit the remains of that day . . .
Is it ever too late to drop from a cloudless sky? . . .
Denise Grunstein |