Lackawanna Steel Plant Complex, 1908
Elizabeth, Could I sing you a song if it was unpracticed. Could my heart weave its strands? The paper is thin, the shadow of my hand behind it, the letters pecked, back space and typed over in some previous lifetime, a woman by the well fetching water and not in the least concerned that it was a brutish day. Folded, unfolded, thirty years ago, the creases cut through words indolent and stupid licking its greasy ear the fear of industry the fear of the moral life the fear that all the dalliances were just that and placed at the end of the small spiral notebook that was closed and we both vanished for a moment from each others' sights which we thought took so long yet back again we were.
Small Stone 14