Some questions for the weekend
Love is an ideal, isn’t it?
Like Schubert’s Unfinished Symphony,
like John Cage’s four minutes and thirty three seconds
of pure silence.
Like Schubert’s Unfinished Symphony,
like John Cage’s four minutes and thirty three seconds
of pure silence.
It doesn’t seem to have much to do with how we linger
or don’t linger over our famous nights.
And I would agree with you, that we aren’t
elastic enough for this. Our suspenders/garters–no good.
Too loud. Yours are black/white/black–intellectual.
Mine are grey and slap the footboard–
anyway I don’t wear them.
But if it’s not written, is it really like
standing in a fire–or not really–
more like burning, a species of self-immolation?