Oh dear, another one of those days - Remembrance Day 2011 will be another, as was January 1st, 2001, when all the numbers align. At ten past ten this morning it would have been even cooler. What are these days called? Why are they not floating festivals, or moments for mass carnivals to erupt, where all order is inverted, and mayhem rules? As luck would have it, I will be guest blogger over at The Best American Poetry blog this week, starting today. So don't expect to see so much of me over here, until next Sunday. Pip pip.
A poem for my mother, July 15 When she was dying And I was in a different country I dreamt I was there with her Flying over the ocean very quickly, And arriving in the room like a dream And I was a dream, but the meaning was more Than a dream has – it was a moving over time And land, over water, to get love across Fast enough, to be there, before she died, To lean over the small, huddled figure, In the dark, and without bothering her Even with apologies, and be a kiss in the air, A dream of a kiss, or even less, the thought of one, And when I woke, none of this had happened, She was still far distant, and we had not spoken.
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