A Hundred Gourds 2:2 March 2013
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Steven Carter - US

Words, loves

Add unwritten poems to the laundry list of lost things—not that astronauts saw anything unusual when they cruised above the moon’s dark side!

Today I plop down on the bank of the Swan River, right where it bids farewell to Swan Lake on its way to Flathead (as big as Tahoe). I pick blossoms from a wild apple tree and toss them into the green ripples—each one a thank-you for a job I didn’t get, back in the day.

As I watch the river disappear around a bend, this thought: the universe = a computer programmed to solve a problem, the problem

Big Bang, Big Whimper, so what? We’re here, or seem to be. Stars at eleven a.m.: invisible, like (you guessed it) so many unwritten poems.

So: not what the words mean, not what they “do,” not what’s beyond them or even between them; what the words are—that’s the skeleton key. To what? Haven’t the words, of course.

              our back-and-forth—
                            snow-geese know
                                        the other way from us


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