novel of my city dim and bright and clean and dirty, I’m trying to make it through this initial puddle shimmering with italics and oil and glistering broken windows but these songs, these gentle songs of love or something tender keep coming on overhead where the sun keeps coming on too, intensifying unbearably the colors in reach, red cardigan, fuschia flowers, washing out my eyes of everything when I look from the window into the darker room, when I leave the world out there to itself and try to read Suttree novel of my city dim and bright.

I’m losing time, I don’t have any money or call-backs but I’m finding you, in whose steady eye my life has been, always, anyway.  Somehow chances fall out and settle in the bottom of the month, like you shake it so the last days before rent is due are deep with what I need to make the edges come together.  Now, I live on your mercies which I do not understand but you I understand, or parts of you, sometimes.  I understand that you take care of me like your small handicapped child who is learning things in order but ever-so-slowly, while taking ever-so-many breaks and vacations and days off to either plan murders or to plant forests, more often to plant forests, walking out of class in the afternoon with seeds and saplings in the secret of secrets, in my invisible basket, walking out of buildings with all my wordless excuses which are sewn under all my clothes and which furl out in wings on my heels.

Can’t there be a way to understand you when you have said this about considering the ravens and the lilies, the birds of the somersaulting air, the grasses of the yellow fields of grass, green lace borders, suited as Solomon?  If I take another day off to walk down across town with friend M, pound the pavement, flatten the grass, get both our faces burned while we open the windows of the sky with their noiseless invisible frames, if I take another day off to be in a solitary window and try to write all the currents of this minute into these unnatural lines, will that count as the quiet living of the birds, the lilies?  What is the life of a lily?  What is the life of the grass?

What is the life of the grass, rolling by acre, grown crowns of fine purple seeds or creeping up in window-boxes, inexplicably sown by the birds of the air?  The lives of these, the life of mine, no parking in the alley, pedestrians use crosswalk, birds please confine songs to designated green areas, keep sidewalk traffic moving, and people for the last time please remain inside yourselves, we have actual business we’re trying to do, here.  The life of the grass is encroaching and covering in nature, understanding the least water and sun to mean: live!  If my life continues to receive the least water and light I will understand it to mean this, surely I will someday roll by acre and meet May with wealth, with purple, green and gold.

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