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The snowy fields have softened to a raw chevre. I eat a little of it I drink a little water I sing a little mercy to myself which makes me an honest man. Fingers numb, I tune my ears to the 7 or 8 metal spouts in the vicinity dripping sap into tin amid a greater orchestra of uncertainty. Listen further, listen deeper: record the unkindnesses, the atrocities, bitter soliloquies, brutalities, note the sounds of the acts and the sounds of the consequences, and play them all back one-by-one on random on repeat in an empty wing of an underfunded museum in a thriving city somewhere in the vicinity of your heart and listen. Then reside there. Year after year for eighty some odd years, let’s say a lifetime, let’s call it life, call it weather, let’s call it love.

Selected by ZB for PoNE | from Number 1, June 2012 >> Table of Contents