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[Image: well, that’s one way to do it. I’m not really sure what this represents, but it got my attention.]<\/em><\/p>\n From whiskey river<\/em><\/a>:<\/p>\n The Meadow<\/strong><\/p>\n As we walk into words that have waited for us to enter them, so and trying, with difficulty, to remember how to make wildflowers. for certain that two horses walk upon it, weary of hay. how the small white pony mysteriously escapes the fence every day. and they turn from his nuzzling with irritation. Everything and caw-cry in mid-flight, then fall and light on the meadow grass sputtering into a field the farmer has not yet plowed, is the knock of a woodpecker for food or warning, I can’t say. But in this world, where something is always listening, even in your sleep, turning into late morning. My love, this might be what you are. There will come a day when the meadow will think and the horses will lie down in daisies and clover. Bedeviled, that even now sleep on your tongue, and to know that tangled (Marie Howe, The Good Thief [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n …and<\/a>:<\/p>\n Time is not a straight line, it’s more of a labyrinth, and if you press close to the wall in the right place you can hear the hurrying steps and the voices, you can hear yourself walking past on the other side.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n (Tomas Transtr\u00f6mer [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Not from\u00a0whiskey river<\/em>:<\/p>\n A Perfect Mess<\/strong><\/p>\n For David Freedman<\/span><\/p>\n I read somewhere
\nthe meadow, muddy with dreams, is gathering itself together<\/p>\n
\nImperceptibly heaving with the old impatience, it knows<\/p>\n
\nThe horses, sway-backed and self important, cannot design<\/p>\n
\nThis is the miracle just beyond their heavy-headed grasp,<\/p>\n
\nis crying out. Two crows, rising from the hill, fight<\/p>\n
\nbewildered by their weight. A dozen wasps drone, tiny prop planes,<\/p>\n
\nand what I thought was a phone, turned down and ringing,<\/p>\n
\nI want to add my cry to those who would speak for the sound alone.<\/p>\n
\nmurmuring has meaning, as in the next room you moan<\/p>\n
\nall we know of forgiveness, this small time when you can forget<\/p>\n
\nsuddenly, water, root, blossom, through no fault of its own,<\/p>\n
\nhuman, your plight, in waking, is to choose from the words<\/p>\n
\namong them and terribly new is the sentence that could change your life.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n
\nthat if pedestrians didn’t break traffic laws to cross
\nTimes Square whenever and by whatever means possible,
\nthe whole city<\/span>
\nwould stop, it would stop.
\nCars would back up to Rhode Island,
\nan epic gridlock not even a cat
\ncould thread through. It’s not law but the sprawl
\nof our separate wills that keeps us all flowing. Today I loved
\nthe unprecedented gall
\nof the piano movers, shoving a roped-up baby grand
\nup Ninth Avenue before a thunderstorm.
\nThey were a grim and hefty pair, cynical
\nas any day laborers. They knew what was coming,
\nthe instrument white lacquered, the sky bulging black
\nas a bad water balloon and in one pinprick instant
\nit burst. A downpour like a fire hose.
\nFor a few heartbeats, the whole city stalled,
\npaused, a heart thump, then it all went staccato.
\nAnd it was my pleasure to witness a not
\ninsignificant miracle: in one instant every black
\numbrella in Hell’s Kitchen opened on cue, everyone
\nstill moving. It was a scene from an unwritten opera,
\nthe sails of some vast armada.
\nAnd four old ladies interrupted their own slow progress
\nto accompany the piano movers.
\neach holding what might have once been
\nlace parasols over the grunting men. I passed next
\nthe crowd of pastel ballerinas huddled
\nunder the corner awning,
\nin line for an open call — stork-limbed, ankles
\nzigzagged with ribbon, a few passing a lit cigarette
\naround. The city feeds on beauty, starves
\nfor it, breeds it. Coming home after midnight,
\nto my deserted block with its famously high
\nsubway-rat count, I heard a tenor exhale pure
\nlonging down the brick canyons, the steaming moon
\nopened its mouth to drink from on high …<\/p><\/blockquote>\n