I'm still sure, even after these jaded years here, that a slice of the white on black night, and a bite of the cookie moon are the most delicious dessert available to us
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The poem translated from Spanish preens on its own intelligence, that’s the problem. Had it oiled and combed its hair with a part down the middle like a Spanish sailor just off the freighter so that a thing of beauty lay before the reader, a thing in isolation but not in isolation, as if among others on a famous beach, one might have thought of the perfume Lorca favored or the tanned foot of a stranger kicking at surf, testing it-- too cold for me?-- not looking at those arrayed on the sand like unwrapped sweets.
Intelligence, surely, is not the enemy. Distance, coldness, a regard only for one’s own island-
which is fear. So that’s the secret. OK, then. I’ll remove my shirt so that you might have a clear target.
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Had it oiled and combed its hair with a part
down the middle like a Spanish sailor just off the freighter
so that a thing of beauty lay before the reader, a thing
in isolation but not in isolation, as if among others on a famous beach,
one might have thought of the perfume Lorca favored
or the tanned foot of a stranger kicking at surf, testing it-- too cold for me?--
not looking at those arrayed on the sand like unwrapped sweets.
Intelligence, surely, is not the enemy.
Distance, coldness, a regard
only for one’s own island-
which is fear.
So that’s the secret.
OK, then. I’ll remove my shirt so that you might have a clear target.
Reply
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