Monday, March 2, 2015

Last night, a dust of snow. This morning, a clean opaque dawn and 15 degrees above zero.

Small birds barrage the empty feeder. I feel the pressure of words--unformed, unthought--behind my skull.

I have been reading a small Harold Pinter play, "Night," which opens like this:
Man. I'm talking about that time by the river.
Woman. What time?
Man. The first time. On the bridge. Starting on the bridge. 
        Pause. 
Woman. I don't remember.
The pressure of words behind my skull resembles their interchange.

2 comments:

John Guzlowski said...

Words are never enough. Words are all we have.

Dawn Potter said...

Yes, and yes.