The places we have known do not belong only to the little world of space on which we map them for our own convenience. None of them was ever more than a thin slice, held between the contiguous impressions that composed our life at that time; the memory of a particular image is but regret for a particular moment; and houses, roads, avenues are as fugitive, alas, as the years. - Marcel Proust

Saturday, March 20, 2010

lancelot du lac

in a dream I was death’s carriage mosquito
bringing you a slow-acting tablet of finality.
you, a diseased commoner of Bresson’s,
a ruddy peasant fishing a lake of glass coke bottle
terrariums filled with curling purple vines.

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