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| Morning Ron Padgett |
Who is here with me? My mother and an Indian man. (I am writing this in the past.) The Indian man is not a man, but a wooden statue just outside the limits of wood. My mother is made of mother. She touches the wood with her eyes and the eyes of the statue turn to hers, that is, become hers. (I am not dreaming. I haven't even been born yet.) There is a cloud in the sky. My father is inside the cloud, asleep. When he wakes up, he will want coffee and smoke. My mother will set fire to the Indian and from deep inside her body I will tell her to start the coffee, for even now I hear my father's breathing change. from You Never Know, copyright 2001 Coffee House Press |
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