Tough Enough
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| Tough Enough |
| Like this one, and maybe this one, you no longer fear losing membership – dressed oddly, or disregarded. In a bell jar with the world, alone, naming it for the first time, in heaven without angels. If an audience didn't exist, it would be necessary to invent one. And after all you pour out to them, you're still a mirror in which their faces change: the self they recognise is already another, disoriented by the continuing beauty of alteration You leave them to sleep into their new moods while you disengage, disguised as ground mist or a venerable, out-of-season orchard, anything useful but not available. You're there for them although you prefer the company of animals and plants. You'd rather address the night, as it inhabits first the trees, then the creek beds, and then the cities inside each head. Too far away to see your hands moving as you talk, your hairy friends shift comfortably, listening, distant. From Baysville |
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