However patiently and faithfully I try to record the quotidian, I find it becomes charged with memory and dream, as if these states of mind or being are infused with a fine mist, like that which heightens the illusion of any natural scene. Set down the most common of items, and it buds and flowers before the sentence ends.
Words are living things. Sometimes, through ignorance and arrogance, we murder them, or treat them as if they were already dead. I was at a word funeral once. The casket was a meadow. The pall bearers were clouds. Most of us in attendance were writers in some frail dimension: poets, novelists, critics, storytellers, biographers. What pale expressions we wore! — thus bearing evidence of our guilt. The funeral lasted all day. Night fell. The stars looked on. Someone lit a candle. Soon we were all given candles to hold, and, singing, we followed the casket into the unknown.
Poems, Slightly Used, January 19, 2009