Micro Memoir: the Moon and Edith Sodergran

There is something about the childlike face of the little dog, trust and appetite, he’s in the game no matter what. If a ball comes his way he’ll scoop it up. If you scratch his ears he will smile as dogs do—that sidelong open grin of the half accommodated predator who still recalls where he came from. I love him for not being me. He is not gifted musically. He’s not cynical like the birds flitting from branch to branch.

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All that shines are the flowers from last night’s dream. Irises. Blue as flame on a cake.

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So many rags and masks in my imagination’s closet. And the wind today blowing darkness against my chin.

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Yes water and light are furnishings. Imagine that house, eh Mr. Aalto?

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When Heraclitus invented lyric time he also created reality.

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Dreamt the green reception of the sea—that first plunge—you can carry it with you.

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The grey flock of academic colleagues, hunching along sidewalks. They know, inwardly, they’re custodians.

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I write hastily, without expectation of thanks, very lonely, as always.

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Quick story: I spent a winter reading Edith Sodergran, alone in the far north—Helsinki. One night, the moon, at my window, reached in, and searched my pockets.