27 February 2009. Clean-washed sun, Canada Dry--the truck, that is. Large and white, with single black wheel. Asian man in gray-green suit reaching up to check the lock, his cohort, similarly dressed, swinging into cab. Disappearing into thin air--no mean feat (for a Leviathan). Like last night--Ung's gray wash, separate strokes merging at top, open below, revealing warm tan of underlying board. Three small holes to left--from a former life. Or the two smudgy footprints on long horizontal--Berta--writing on the world. Then, Sabina, kneeling on floor, intently folding her blue-lined sheet--an homage, "this changed my life," small boat on the open sea, charting a course for miracles--a vision, even, shared, it seems by no one else. America to the old world. Irish shore, the hull alone...sailor lost in place unknown...
A bird, a prayer...
(for Hojin)
No comments:
Post a Comment