“Do not be too moral. You may cheat yourself out of much life. Aim above morality. Be not simply good; be good for something.” –Thoreau

29 September 2009

Prose poetry: an attempt.

SITTING IN THE LIVING ROOM WITH 
MY RABBIT DRINKING IN THE DARK

They don’t travel together anymore. Not to bed anyway. Which seems to matter most it seems. And she pretends to care about hurting his feelings which is a lie which doesn’t fool anyone. Anymore. He pretends it doesn’t hurt and that he doesn’t know what he deserves. Only that might not be a lie. If it were like this all the time in the world then I am not sure it is for me. The world. Our rabbit says it isn’t so, but she can only eat what I feed her. When I lay down beside you it makes me think things. That we should leap away, off the world like cows do. I tell you and you think I’m lovely and strange but I worry about it all through the night. You roll over to heat the south end of the bed. I sit up and wonder: To where do you travel now?