cabin fever

imperfect worlds

eight by eight
in the eight ways we hate
and the eight ways we ate
eight by eight
just in time

to find the eight ways to die
and end it all

there are only those now
thin and slim now
the edge of life 
can only be cut
eight ways now,
now, that I've known you

Another photograph was of twenty whooping cranes taking off at once—the note on the back said that it took Gordon three weeks to find a place where there were that many whooping cranes; there are only about four hundred of them in the world, and a lot of them are in captivity.

Hate is not only appropriate but demanded

And not only in these trying times of ours

You fuck

I won't show you anything, we'll just exchange lies for a while.

\ read

1. Caro, Robert A., The Power Broker: Robert Moses and the fall of New York, New York: Knopf, 1974.

Impossibility is not a realm isolated from the possible, with its own curious customs and countryside.

Impossibility: a dark leap from the surface of logic uncaptured by God's good grace.

I can't imagine how awful meeting most of you would be, but I imagine it'd be worse than I can imagine.

The foundations of logic are deep and beyond remonstrance, place your criticisms as you would depth charges in the Marianas Trench.

Hate and love are as nothing against the onslaught of our great and beauteous indifferences.

To Failure

    You do not come dramatically, with dragons
    That rear up with my life between their paws
    And dash me butchered down beside the wagons,
    The horses panicking; nor as a clause
    Clearly set out to warn what can be lost,
    What out-of-pocket charges must be borne
    Expenses met; nor as a draughty ghost
    That's seen, some mornings, running down a lawn.

    It is these sunless afternoons, I find
    Install you at my elbow like a bore
    The chestnut trees are caked with silence. I'm
    Aware the days pass quicker than before,
    Smell staler too. And once they fall behind
    They look like ruin. You have been here some time.

-Philip Larkin

How Soon Hath Time

How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth,
	Stolen on his wing my three and twentieth year!
	My hasting days fly on with full career,
	But my late spring no bud or blossom shew’th.

Perhaps my semblance might deceive the truth,
	That I to manhood am arrived so near,
	And inward ripeness doth much less appear,
	That some more timely-happy spirits endu’th.

Yet, be it less or more, or soon or slow,
	It shall be still in strictest measure even
	To that same lot, however mean or high,

Toward which Time leads me, and the will of Heaven;
	All is: if I have grace to use it so,
	As ever in my great Task-Master’s eye.

-John Milton

It's not wrong, it just ain't happen to be right neither is all

Fugitive Pieces, Anne Michaels

"Skin of the Eyes" "lower canada 1791-1840: social change and nationalism" by fernand ouellet.