The 2010s, when you finally got it together and the world got so much worse. It seems like a Faustian pact, but it wasn’t so—only a matter of picking out the right step on the escalator.
If it’s sour, when aren’t you sour? If it’s sweet, why aren’t you sharing?
Caesium bead of a heart, hammering seconds, heaping years. (Accomplishment number one: did not drown in the Seine. Accomplishment number two—stop it.)
La vida es sueño more often now, and I do feel gentler toward it since it was so improbable. The Colorado Rockies ranged in file like a frozen dance on a frieze. My reading chair in this house on a slope, which at times is identical with the house of my childhood and at other times drifts like a boat in the blue.
Fireworks are going off for the world to come. The futurists are back in business, starting as always from the unexamined assumption that there’s going to be a future. Of course the millenarians haven’t guessed right either.