“
Now reading
Fragment of a Pastoral
Here might we live in... not quite peace, but relative
obscurity. Trees and mountains: this is metonomy.
I loved
Brooklyn
on your behalf, but was it what we dreamed of under the
air-vents
of August nights, in summer's tired plunge toward a red
dawn?
It was all we could do to take "taking seriously"
seriously: eyeglasses, eggs, the Times, rhubarb, rhubarb,
peas and carrots, hail Caesar, ciphers for the endless
adulthood of Sunday breakfast, products of who knows
whose fancy?
To understand those moments, to sort them justly, I
can't believe
we thought it possible. Like trying to live
on Benzedrene and Life Savers, you just can't,
eventually.
So this: a partial remedy for the quandary we
argued
over cups and cups of coffee, perhaps worse than no
remedy,
but who will be the wiser? Only we must become small
enough
to live in this broken world...