"I wanted to drive home real fast and get Rita and bring her back to see everything - the dogs, the brittle light, the fuzzy air - but I figured by the time we got back it'd all be gone."
from Driver, by Frederick Barthelme
There is nothing beside the familiar
doormat to get excited about, yet when one goes out in loose weather
the change is akin to choirs singing in a distance nebulous with fear
and love. Sometimes one’s own hopes are realized
and life becomes a description of every second of the time it took;
conversely, some are put off by the sound of legions milling about.
One cultivates certain smells, is afraid to leave the charmed circle
of the anxious room lest uncommitted atmosphere befall
and the oaks
are seen to be girdled with ivy.
the world’s colored paths all lead
to my mouth, and I drop, humbled, eating from the red-clay floor.
And only then does inspiration come: late, yet never too late.