My mother loves me but not in her heart. So her love is like water leaking from a neighbor’s apartment. As I grow older I see there’s no landlord and I take up amateur plumbing, stanching my mother’s accidental love however I may. Now that’s she’s dead I still hold the wrench—the one missing teeth—the accommodation of deflection will be necessary again. My poor mother, who loved so little. But at least I can embellish the wrench with corn flowers.
**
I live in a cold, northern city in North America. Though its spring its still snowing. One sees how sad the houses are—like the houses in Neruda’s poems—the houses are suicidal. The crows sail around in their unambiguous death watch.�
Planet of the Blind 