Sunday, June 5, 2016

Simone Weil 37

We should not think about. When I asked my mother to apologize, she said she'd meant it then. As if then were itself a universe. As if to apologize now (which is now then) were to deny a truth set in amber. As if that memory were a precious thing, not in its feeling, but as it existed for us both. Memory is not what I think about, but what I think around. Satellites flicker like stars, but they move; sight divorced from touch, detached. A bearded man in black top hat goes kite surfing off Kailua Beach. There's wit in time's layering, so long as you're the kite. 

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