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A moment free—rare these last few weeks. We drove to get coffee and wander a book store for two hours. Purchased a variety of mismatched volumes: Tom Sawyer (to reread), City of Ladies (to finish reading), Collected Works of Marianne Moore (because I should read), and Journal of Thoreau (inspirational read).
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Almost ten o’clock, but do not feel the usual pull of sleep. Trying to shift focus from school matters. Concentrate on poetry once more. In memory, St. Louis offered more inspiration. Atlanta: nothing. Houston: slim. But we only lived here two years—and I have created new work.
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I marked a line in a collection of Robert Haas poems—as a reminder for a future lecture, or future verse of my own, yet now, looking at it repeatedly, memory fails, refuses to release the background information again… the significance of the wording fades, despite the their beauty, just as a faded, fragmented fresco in Italy— Florence or Pisa, showing two cupids wrestling, arguing over a fallen heart, the full tableau tarnished and barely recognizable on the wall, colored in tones of rust and old blood.
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Fragmented haikus
as broken shards on the floor—
or clusters of stone.