Saturday, June 25, 2016

Simone Weil 50

The eye of the soul is this attention. An early morning downpour is ordinary; Donald Trump is banal. I keep writing inside a container-paragraph's four walls. The girls run up our stairs in sun hats, imagining they're immigrants trying to break through. The glass in condos frees us to imagine transparency, if we can afford a studio with ocean-view. There's the word “love” again, emblazoned in the ad; love is a view of an incessant blue sky, but it will cost you. The windows don't open; they turn ocean into show. Trump stands on a Scottish golf course, bagpipers standing at attention behind him. The Chieftain of no we can't, of henna hackles tweet!

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