Correction #11


. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . dandelion seeds fluttering by, in December, an interesting natural phenomenon, like the icebergs sloughing off and approaching us now (scientists recently discovered one in Antarctica twice the size of Atlanta) or an eclipse or the Tragic Poet, how I used to believe a man wouldn’t try to drink 21 shots of liquor, couldn’t possibly, until of course on a late night walk of White Horse Saloon, and later—maybe October, could have been June—I myself drank 19 beers on this very porch, fell over the railing, woke in the green and golden mercy of the leaves (as the poets might say). So it is possible. Reading a great deal of Dylan Thomas and also this book titled the good life slipping away . . . . . . . . . perhaps just a dictionary or a guide to those with hollow bones. I own an apartment building full of birds—you see it there, atop that mighty pole. They come and go. Example, a Golden Eagle! Correction: a plastic bag snagged in a tree. The way the wind moves not so unpleasant. And over there a little pool below a concrete pipe and twigs and brown foam and a Mountain Dew bottle spinning. A sandbox in shape of ladybug. Flattened. The clouds again—they seem to fill the air in watchful anticipation of love finally defeating terror (and what will history think of that?). But I digress: Purple Martins like tiny airplanes or maybe just actual airplanes, droning high over rooftops at night. I always wonder where they are going, what’s inside them (the same when I hear the wail of trains) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Here comes a coughing fit or a memory‚Ķ..dandelions in December, twirling down. Over there is where the dog happened. That big tree births buckeyes. The rusting wheelbarrow is where the birds go to think. Alongside it you see a red high heel shoe. And then another shoe: they will walk right up out of this morning and onto the porch and sit right here beside me—it will happen soon, I’m sure of it, like poetry and odd weather and other recent ambiguities . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . That’s not dandelions, it’s just the snow, is what she said to me, flatly, before drifting off, and me hanging out on the porch now, raw and chilled like so much meat but I am indeed flesh, a great part of me. So . . . . . . . . . .  

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