News has a way of turning on its head. A few months ago, one Mr. Assange was the daring rebel of the world's media, arguably the man of the year; now, he is one step away from a trial for sex crimes, and potentially, a death-penalty trial in the US for treason; his semi-autobiography is a dud; and he is seen for the strange arrogant man he likely is. Meanwhile, one-time Godfather of fast food, Mr. Cain, the other day the one to beat to beat Obama, is now mired in sleaze, and bumbling. The media throws such characters up the pop charts. But they do, eventually, fall.
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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