This is Eyewear's 2,900th post, smack in the middle of a misty cool November evening in London. I googled the number, but found nothing much of import. I welcome any interesting apercus on the subject. I would like people to comment on their favourite post of this long-lived blog, so far. Best answer wins a copy of Morgan Harlow's Midwest Ritual Burning - if there is a best one.
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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