If I am repaired, can we meet again for the first time, in all of the places I have feared to go, and then, again, in all of the places I will have forgotten, if I am repaired?



Saturday, October 15, 2011

'Selected Stories'

Who was it turned me on to Alice Munro?

I can't recall.
But thank you.
She's a treasure.

Coming to Grips

So it's plan A again,
a quiet place under the big white oak out back.
I can see no other way to rid myself
of the clutter I’ve accumulated.
(Only so much can be given to charity, burned.)
And too,
I’m a fad.
I have no enduring value.
As things are, I’d never be a mantelpiece long—if at all.
At some point I’d have to be dragged from the attic, discarded.
I’ll spare you the bother.