Today she is dead. I think I dozed
off for a while. It breaks me to write this. I write. Only a little at a time.
I have no purpose in setting out at sunset except to later say to someone, I
set out at sunset. I greet a man. He cries at me, my sister who wrote me the
email is in the process of
She said it breaks me. The man who
broke me. For everything to be consummated.
That was then. This is when I threw
myself on the floor. I sobbed. Dear sister, I felt you had been happy. I was
wrong. She is dead, that is what the man had told me.
We exchanged kisses, he liked the
shoes I was wearing. He told me, she is pure, and I was always happy, do not
think I would let you touch her. There is no man in this world save one who you
don’t know
you who I would not let touch my sister.
She knew I wouldn’t be able to take it over the phone
Mother, I took everything over the
phone, up to the last minute
The pale-blue bungalow
The renunciation of
Formalities is crucial to the modern project.
Mom was at Holland Home
I stand with a man whom I don’t
know. We are charged with the task of getting to know
Uncommonly long paths, which until now
We have avoided following, preferring, as if around it, tracks that squeeze between the walls of buildings
But cities are no longer indifferent, they grow out of the feelings attendant to our idea of them, we stop. I
feel like this is a neighborhood. But I am uprising, like steam, indifferent to condolence. I
do not trust those who say they have mixed feelings. One grows out of loathing into something ambivalent. When it
comes to Mom, my sister said.
They washed her at dawn,
Rage had made her the dawn, or the
evening. In Michigan is where Holland Home is
Although sharp
It’s difficult to think of what to say. Because of its being
true because I don’t quite know where it is anymore, though I think I could,
given enough time, find what it is I would like to say, were it included on some
list of possible things to say presented to me.
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