Monday, February 2, 2015


Till you can sing and rejoice and delight . . . as misers do in gold, and Kings in sceptres, you never enjoy the world. The problem, she said, was not who has the power, but power itself. They put dog shit in front of his door and, when he fell sick, they took everything. He saw rifle sights in raindrops, which is not to say he saw raindrops, or that he deflected his gaze from the world. Did you see them, he asked a friend. Raindrop metamorphosis did not draw them closer. Gold does not bring the miser nearer to his twin. They took his books, his computer, his kitchen cabinets. Something about him had been unclean. To expel means to breathe out; it is your own breath you lose.

--2 February 2015

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