as though it doesn't matter what is real
<i> " . . . something almost . . . with asking."
—Brenda Hillman</I>
According to their signs we're in the country
Far off things are being put on the record
Where it may not matter to anyone
If the shadows hide themselves behind rain
The canal opening below the sky
Daytime moving in swirls the painted colors
Or the idea wind sometimes stops and starts
What we might more properly call nostalgia
If we wanted to we could follow later
Without giving up his place in the world
A color postcard folded in our pockets
The light informing us it's afternoon
When what we feel is we remember feeling
Not long ago it was the time before
This poem doesn't make enough sense to be a story, and it doesn't have good enough imagery to evoke feelings for me. Some of the lines are interesting though.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Sorry. I don't understand this poem at all. What may happen? I've read it twice and still don't understand it. Maybe I'm just too old.