Carolyn M. Rodgers

child, in the august of your life you come barefoot to me the blisters of events having worn through to the soles of your shoes. it is not the time this is not the time there is no such time to tell you that some pains ease away on the ebb & toll of themselves. there is no such dream that can not fail, nor is hope our only conquest. we can stand boldly in burdening places (like earth here) in our blunderings, our bloomings our palms, flattened upward or pressed, an unyielding down.

on a day when we were dark and not so full of light we met what did we find? nothing. everything, when we closed our eyes which anyway had never been open. once, we thought we loved each other who can reverse time? we tried. we stepped out of space into some new step of distance and fell— and not in love.

you see so many graveyards around these little towns— out in the open spaces & places. i guess big cities have not enough space for the living, let alone the dead. there is so much water here and back home in chicago we would call them rocks, lying all on the ground(s) lots of rocks around/but you would call them stones here. see how much smoother the world is. the farther east we go the more frequent are the stops at rich small quaint towns and the more frequent are the admonitions to “watch one’s ticket on the rack above the seat or to be very sure to take it with you if you leave your seat!” apparently, the very wealthy, steal. as i ride the train watching the many white students eating out of brown paper sacks, saving their now money so that they can be the very wealthy later on, also.