The child's best loved and most absorbing occupation is play. Perhaps we may say that every child at play behaves like an imaginative writer, in that she creates a world of her own, or, more truly, she rearranges things of her own world and orders it in a new way that pleases her better. It would be incorrect to think that she does not take this world seriously and each cycle of abandonment is to be another stepping tangent to eternity. Would it be incorrect to return this eternity using thought from a finite grease lightening, grease lightening. In the banquet scene that follows, nevertheless, she holds on. Thinking too close to feeling is like a stray fireplace in the desert home. This thinking believes the imagination and trusts silence and steps in to where the mind is unwarranted enough to do work, enough to move something toward her
But what aren't you thinking?
Ruler, rebel, champagne and ripple
painless, muleless moscow
What army you empty enters you
what battle the blank space wins
is the difference between youth and blue music games dripping over midair dice like a rearview mirror split second too near
What are you thinking?
I’m thinking that she is very much like California.
When she is still her dress is like a roadmap. Highways
Traveling up and down her surface
Long empty highways
With the moon chasing jackrabbits across them
On hot summer nights.
I am thinking that her body could be California
And he her rich Eastern tourist
Lost somewhere between Hell and Texas
Looking at a map of a long, velvet, dancing California
That I have ever seen.
Willing, send me some penny picture-postcards, lady,
Send them.
One of each breast photographed looking
Like curious national monuments,
One of your body sweeping like a three-lane highway
Twenty-eight miles from a night’s lodging
In the world’s oldest hotel.
What are you thinking?
I am thinking of how many times this frame
Will be repeated. How many summers
Will torture California
Until the damned maps burn
Until the mad cartographer
Falls to the ground and possesses
The sweet thick earth from which he has been hiding.
What are you thinking now?
I am thinking that life could go on forever.
that each poem ends like a rope made of rose stems and I am sometimes
gripping
the right parts
