Rumor.
Though nothing may remain but the rumor.
Odor.
Though nothing may remain but the odor.
But tear out of the memory
and the color of the old hours.
Sorrow.
Facing the magical quick sorrow.
Struggle.
The genuine, the unclean struggle.
But rid me of the invisible people
who forever move about my house!
Federico Garcia Lorca
I have Wished You Dead
I have wished you dead and myself dead.
How could it be otherwise.
I have broken into you like a burglar.
And you've set your dogs on me.
And a pile of broken sticks.
A child could kick.
I have climbed you like a monument, gasoing,
For the exercise and the view,
And leaned over the railing at the top...
Strong and warm, the summer wind.
Alicia Ostriker
Midi Song: Mr. Sandman

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