Dear Eternity,
Have you been hoarding our dead old watches, then flaunting their fading glitter here and there in the night sky?

I keep thinking about the beautiful woman I passed on the street last night whom I will surely never see again. “He lost his head and spent the rest of his life looking for it,” they’ll say about me.

Gypsy fortune-teller sitting at a small round table in her parlor late one night and staring intently into an iPhone while waiting for a customer.

His was a sad, sad love story that made everyone who heard it laugh.

Every poet has his or her own way of mourning the passage of time. That may be the solution to the mystery of why so many people are drawn to poetry.

“I’d rather listen to a tree than to a philosopher,” my old friend Tony Perniciaro used to say, but now the trees have no leaves and have little to say to the snow just beginning to fall.

“We all grope around in the dark,” I whispered in the middle of the night just to hear my own voice.

.........--Charles Simic

[via NYR blog]

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