Arrested by the pleasures
Of being singular and alone
Not particularly:
On a desert mountain she writes her novel
Rakishly
And sees no one. The feather quick hit
Fingers to the keyboard is small provision:
An inhabitation in letters
Is variously good but this is not a lecture.
The dayıs sun trowels my shoulders.
At night I dream my late father has now
Fully evacuated the house, each room
A dark emptiness, a vacant breeze, the doors
Squeak among loose hinges. As the sun rises,
The floorboards, already ripped away from crossbeams
The earth below, a rich, dark brown, loose loam,
Fit to give over, fresh for planting.
Stephen Vincent
Blog: http://stephenvincent.durationpress.com
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