Restless this afternoon, I thought about going to the Goodwill store. Those books haunt my imagination. What if someone has donated the complete poems of William Carlos Williams? What if there is some Raymond Chandler sitting on a shelf? What if (very unlikely) there is a volume of Yvor Winters, or of Kenneth Rexroth's translations? They won't be there long. Someone not me will get them. And what if there is something I never knew I wanted? I will never find out I wanted it! The thought of an undiscovered unknown desire is unbearable. I'll try not to think about it.
There is definitely something I was supposed to do that I've forgotten to do. It doesn't make sense that I would remember forgetting something I haven't yet remembered, but there it is. I can't shake the feeling. Something important is going undone, and I have no idea what it is. I wonder if I'll ever find out?
by Arkaye Kierulf
You must have felt it working in your bones. It's begun: The papers
print the same stories over and over, and have you checked
the obituaries? Already, nobody remembers
how their first kiss went. The phone keeps ringing and ringing
when nobody's home. Between our skins is a necessary friction
that separates us forever. Look: space. Somewhere, a lost key. It's begun:
What was once the wind or an echo or an accidental sweetness
is now a bird outside your window singing with perfect pitch and timbre
the song that's on all our tongues, cut. What pulls from the earth to exist
the earth pulls back into itself: this and this and this is mine. You own nothing.
Our bodies breathe to a rhythm, to one direction, to one regression. It's begun:
The truth stares us down like an owl: There's no place to go: You own nothing.
In the dark you hear movement – a squeak, a hiding. The heart opens, closes, opens.