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One never stops reading, though books come to an end, just as one never stops living, even though death is a certainty.

Roberto Bolaño


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🦋 On the water

Today we rode the ferry from Plymouth to Provincetown; we biked around the tip of the cape, bathed in the beautiful, transparent ocean, looked around Provincetown a bit, and took the boat back to Plymouth. Here are a couple of images that I think could be assembled into a poem:

  • The million tiny bubbles which comprise the whiteness of foam in our boat's wake, splashing and ebbing into the undulating surface of the harbor.
  • The texture of the water's surface changing as the sun hits it; the sparkling tails of reflected sunlight streaming away from the focus of brightness into the green, gray, black, green darkness. Scintillating blackness blossoming from the choppy waves.
  • Swimming off the beach -- moving through fields of colder and warmer water; looking at the mottled sunlight on the pebbles underwater.

(...and riffing on this, what about a Borgesian-fiction spin on poetry, where the author describes a long imaginary poetic work by quickly examining images from the poem and impulses behind them, inventing an author.)

posted evening of Tuesday, August 25th, 2009

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