55º and lovely, warming sun
Thanks to Josh Robbins for sending me this poem.
Earthquake such great stretches of dreamscape such lines of all too familiar lines staved in caved in so the filthy wake resounds with the notion of the pair of us? What of the pair of us? Pretty much the tale of the family surviving disaster: “In the ancient serpent stink of our blood we got clear of the valley; the village loosed stone lions roaring at our heels.” Sleep, troubled sleep, the troubled waking of the heart yours on top of mine chipped dishes stacked in the pitching sink of noontides. What then of words? Grinding them together to summon up the void as night insects grind their crazed wing cases? Caught caught caught unequivocally caught caught caught caught head over heels into the abyss for no good reason except for the sudden faint steadfastness of our own true names, our own amazing names that had hitherto been consigned to a realm of forgetfulness itself quite tumbledown. Aimé Césaire (Translated, from the French, by Paul Muldoon.) from The New Yorker, January 25, 2010
Doctors Without Borders
Red Cross
Oxfam America
