The singular vine doesn’t climb the house. It’s rooted eight feet away, stretching across the bramble backyard, angling upwards to point to an upstairs bedroom window, as if to say, “This bitch. It’s this bitch right here who sleeps behind the machinations of teenagers, red-heart-kissed paperwork they’ve excitedly all but figured out.” The vine points, points, and sniffs. The bitch turns.
This is delicious. Wonderful. A world and the world at once.
ReplyDeleteJust down the road from you, but in a different sort of world today, not really a world that you and I are usually in, I'm re-reading Lucie Brock-Broido's _Trouble in Mind_, and I can't tell you how perfectly intersecting are your work here, the Wagner scrapbook, and the Brock-Broido: I have just been in a hammock in the farmy heat, there was a clothesline on a red metal pole, there were baby birds in a nest above,; LBB is very dramatic and exquisite and wild, "[a]s certain and invisible as/ Red scarves silking endlessly/ From a magician's hollow hat."