Oct 15 2010
notes i found later
When you called,
I was somewhere outside of Denver,
repacking the car.
My belongings sprawled
out on the pavement.
A tattered purple suitcase.
A bag of accessories. A towel bag.
A saw. A drill. Seriously.
You called to read me a passage
from the Tibetan Book of Living
and Dying, I sat down on the curb
to listen. Then you said, “It’s as if
everything we do, is to prove how
permanent we are.”
“I am so ridiculously permanent,”
I said. “I have all kinds of things to
prove it.”
The mountains chuckled.
The sun cupped my cheek.
It was the first moment all day
that I had noticed the sun. The
light beat down on the industrial
blender, the ironing board, the
bag of canned goods.
We all looked so temporary.
