Around the blurb thought might dull their prismatic luminescence,
Their proof of parataxis's poiesis." I didn't write that, of course.
I sat in a pine chair carved with a chainsaw to look like it held the sun
And read through the dreams of Ives and her hermit, Nancy.
We can't all be the final girl, can't all be brave, can't all be cited or lauded
For choosing to publish our self-documented isolation, but we can
Ask as well, "Is it possible we somehow die for a time, a year,
A month, a day, without realizing this, then awake to find ourselves,
Which is to say 'someone,' present again, attentive, expectant, apologetic
Even?" We can spend a final weekend, perhaps before or after that possibility,
With a daughter home sick watching Bambi and other lonely fare
And consider ourselves hermit, or what a hermit is today. Yesterday,
Shortly before I was born, Beth Gleick wrote Time Is When.
By the time I was in my mid-fifties, her sly son had quoted her,
Calling her a children's book. That's all I have time to report for now.
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