I Was Going to Use the Typewriter

We turned the chairs to face each other.
In a moment there were memory of sound.
The scraping of leaves against the birds,
against windowsills.
When I was a child I was most afraid
of opening the curtain to a face on a ladder.
Between the keys of the typewriter is untold depths.
A watchmaker god, the clock wheels spinning.
Often I am permitted to return to a meadow.
There the boughs bend but never break into song.
Attributed to caterpillars, facing a journey of grass.
The violins are changeling into crickets, into species.
The shellac is rusty from a dog begging for treats.
Winter came late this year, at least we told ourselves.
If there are raisins in this dish I’m not having it.
You’re crying because the guitars accused of genius.
Wait to decide on college until you’ve found
the right pond.
Across the gate there’s different road noises, untold.
The holes in this paper make concentric circles.
If you pull the window shade too quick, you’ll never
get it down, and won’t you be sorry
when the time comes for you to be making love.

One comment

  1. “When I was a child I was most afraidof opening the curtain to a face on a ladder.” yes, yes, yes, me too

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