Yes, a four-day week would be excellent.

When I was small, I did think Greenland was made up of vast stretches of green land and you could walk over from one side to the other in a couple of hours. Nobody lived in Greenland, of course.

Yes, you should have called.

I have two copies of Harold and the Purple Crayon and I’m not giving either away.

No, I don’t know why I listen to you tell me nothing but the very end of the story, yes, you miss out all the other bits and details, the things that make it real and you don’t know it… and the thing is, what if the end is all that matters to you?

I may not put up any art on my blue wall after all. I just want to watch light fall on it in the morning. I want to watch light fall on the yellow wall and bounce onto the blue.

There is a book I loved as a child that I no longer have and I don’t know what it’s called or who wrote it or where it is now, and because I don’t remember any of this, I am haunted by the thought of dying without ever seeing this book again.

Yes, I’d like to be friends, bugger. Not that you’ll ever ask. But that’s what this post is about, among other things.

Right now, Bird Stealing Bread is playing in my head:

“I’ve a picture of you
On our favorite day
By the seaside.”

The way you walk into my dreams, makes the next morning feel like this, now, isn’t happening and I don’t want that and I can’t fix it.

Wings that I can tuck into my back? Yes. Wings to begin with? Yes.

White lotus pond in my garden? Yes.

Orange sorbet? Now? Yes.

 

There Is No Word
Tony Hoagland

There isn’t a word for walking out of the grocery store
with a gallon jug of milk in a plastic sack
that should have been bagged in double layers

—so that before you are even out the door
you feel the weight of the jug dragging
the bag down, stretching the thin

plastic handles longer and longer
and you know it’s only a matter of time until
bottom suddenly splits.

There is no single, unimpeachable word
for that vague sensation of something
moving away from you

as it exceeds its elastic capacity
—which is too bad, because that is the word
I would like to use to describe standing on the street

chatting with an old friend
as the awareness grows in me that he is
no longer a friend, but only an acquaintance,

a person with whom I never made the effort—
until this moment, when as we say goodbye
I think we share a feeling of relief,

a recognition that we have reached
the end of a pretense,
though to tell the truth

what I already am thinking about
is my gratitude for language—
how it will stretch just so much and no farther;

how there are some holes it will not cover up;
how it will move, if not inside, then
around the circumference of almost anything—

how, over the years, it has given me
back all the hours and days, all the
plodding love and faith, all the

misunderstandings and secrets
I have willingly poured into it.

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