Maybe 211
Yesterday someone suggested that I think of the unruly unwieldy uneverything upstate novel more like a graphic novel. I'm wondering if it can be people poems, and drawings of them. Like the wonderful Irene Beckman book What I Wore. There will be a limit to the number of people. It has to be a LUCKY number. With ll as one of the elements. Maybe 211.
There are trees. Ours are not Just Trees. And all that is beyond what I can ever describe. Blue, for instance, blue a yellow and green that can become sky, blue that is no longer called blue. But what I want to tell you is what I love: this winding street our street of 32 people up and down, in a trailer big white house covered with ivy apartment in back of the post office people with messy real lives tea kettles love affairs people who dream every single night who drink sometimes who watch television and often write poems.