Friday, June 10, 2016

Simone Weil 41

Life is an ersatz form of salvation. The dean responded to the mother of a distressed student as if he were answering a complaint about pot-holes. If only he'd put the last paragraph first; if only his grammar were better; if only he'd avoided the verb “to impact.” Would his prose be clear as the edge of a bubble my daughter blows? With a rainbow smudge, as if aesthetics compensated for cruelty? My coffee comes of acorns, but I taste Columbian. My flour tastes of soy, but that's my personal pronoun. I'm grateful for what tricks me to attention. The gash of purple flower-light against the Ko'olau, the fading coos of doves in fugue with a shama thrush--these are a true imagining. I cannot pare my senses down to none. A candlestick found in the garden means someone paid attention. Detectives always share the guilt.

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