I like to findwhat's not foundat once, but lies within something of another nature,in repose, distinct.
Gull feathers of glass, hidden in white pulp: the bones of squidwhich I pull out and layblade by blade on the draining board— tapered as if for swiftness, to piercethe heart, but fragile, substancebelying design. Or a fruit, mamey, cased in rough brown peel, the fleshrose-amber, and the seed:the seed a stone of wood, carved and polished, walnut-colored, formedlike a brazilnut, but large,large enough to fillthe hungry palm of a hand.
I like the juicy stem of grass that growswithin the coarser leaf folded round,and the butteryellow glowin the narrow flute from which the morning-gloryopens blue and cool on a hot morning.
