I saw and listened to a poet last night. In his poems were many windows and from one of the windows was the lady vacuuming, her loneliness scarlet behind the geraniums on the sill.
I have seen this lady, too, from a different window, from the kitchen doorway, out of sight. But I have seen her. Just like I’ve seen the sparrows at dusk and the crow in the rain.
And then afterwards I went to see this band at a bar, a bar like other bars– red padded stools, glowing glass signs, bottles humming in the dim light.
The bass player said the terror and fear in our world, the scrambling from earthquakes and tidal waves and radiation, all that cancer, and all the blood from brutality, was a catalyst. Catalyst, hope, same thing.
The singer in the band was happy, lost in the passion of sound, and we, though not singing, got pulled in just the same.
And then there was the man, in a different country altogether, so recently, it could’ve been tonight, that man talking around the table, talking about phosphorescent plankton, their shine on the waves rolling in, lighting up his footprints in the sand. Oh yes! I didn’t say that. I didn’t say anything. But I knew this same thing once, at the beach, wringing the night ocean from my bathing suit.
The sparkle of sun on mica at the mountain’s base, even that is the same as the glitter of the street lamp on late night snow.
What about all the other things? You remember when that piece of fruit got all sticky in your hands and the time when you grasped something precious against your chest. What about when you smelled the air sweet after the rain or when you saw something so beautiful you could’ve wept had you let yourself. And when you heard that long sound from the horn or the pipe and your soul gathered itself in your chest waiting for a chance to spring free, I remember that too.
This is enough evidence for me. I think we are each other.