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09.29.08 / 10:31 pm
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from my cave, i watch the people -
brisk, about their business -
while i disengage.
i dry peppermint for tea in the rafters,
and pickle tomatoes in my cellar:
each jar - another number on the shelf;
the labor - an opening into the self.i surround myself with books,
whole rooms, musty with the smell of pages,
the plague of remembering. i age boldly, every granule and cell.
without time: this dynamic process - static,
lacking all humanity and self-consciousness.
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