Tuesday, June 23, 2015


O let the spirit of truth dwell with me, and then little matter for any other comforter. What finally matters is what is not matter. To describe what I hear--thrush and weed-whacker--is to de-matter this morning's minions. Minions! the little boy on a boat sang out. Is she your minion? my daughter asked. Don't give us dominion over. Reduce us to the dust that stands in as last matter. Mother. To mend is to matter. Nell would rhyme mend with rend, but the rending always came first. After her death, we're left to remember, re-mend. What remains is ardor's aura, a difficult wake. Her Ireland need not be ours, but it is unimpeachably green. To meditate on matter in your tradition, Tom, makes for an awkward fit. But the awkwardness is material, brown plastic wedge under a door that props it open. Don't kick it out; the slamming shut is loud sound.

i.m. N.A.
--23 June 2015

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