far-see

FAR-SEE



Raining shelter,

Sideswipe slanted slates,

Silgin shrubs,

Merlot- with any luck,

Falling trees and that stump,

Sing-sing road,

Intuition cold, sneeze.

Anatomical clocks, regret.

Chronic lisps source.

Roadside ordnance.

KILLER.

You can generate too much power in here ones not too careful.

Lay on eerie, upon Shelter Island.

Defeating all-purpose and consuming more credibility the expected.

Your firearm side,

Insufficient funds.

In greater steps there are none.

Fewer mishaps then this can be focused on.

In which case word play is the same as four play

At any level of dialect, it is incoherent.

And I frown on any matter per say, matter of fact.

Old rust bridges hang pussycats well; humans can use the same excuse.

9. Ounces.

'I can't hear what it is your saying

Comments

, marc garrett

Hi Natalie - I thought I'd continue closely where you kind of left off,
but starting from the third from last sentence, of your text…

Your text - After midnight significant others don't sleep well without thei=
r lovers.


The night is drafty and the wind blows through me causing a chill like a ha=
unting
memory, or is it a lost dream? No, it is a memory, a cluster of images culm=
inating
into a hazy, shaky archive, a collection of specific moments.

These moments are important to me, they have formed who I am now.
When I think of you, I mainly remember the essence of you, your smell,
your laughter, your tears and the intensity of our visceral mutuality.

For me, our love possessed verve, an energy unfathomable. A treasure withou=
t
references or a map to inform us of where and how, if it will end. The spir=
it lived
outside and inside of me and you. Unbound, not needing the remits of cultur=
e and
socially inherited opinions. It was part of our dream, the planet, my famil=
y,
my life and your life.

Losing you has created not a gap but a cut, a wound so deep that when I clo=
se
my eyes, I do not sleep but wish that I could wake up next to you once more=
.
And when that wind whistles through the open window; I am always alert, hop=
ing
that your spirit will come back and visit me, hold me, touch me once again =
with
those magical feelers, those honest and uncynical intimate hands, caressing=

my delicate frame.



marc garrett