Breakfast is over, and now some unlucky bastard is sitting on the fender of a late starting dawn.
I'll tell you what I mean:
It was us in a log cabin in Oregon in the late nineteenth century. It was September and there were a few traces of summer left, you're in bed, just given birth and I'm not much of a midwife. On weekends I smoke a pipe and drink rosepetal wine out of a jelly jar and say things like "it's getting dangerous to be poor in this country!" as I wash the stagecoach.
But its 11:18am on a twenty-first century Friday. Last night I heard someone yell something about "staying gold" or "laying cold" into a french dictaphone that hadn't worked since the late 1980s.
Do you know Merwin's poems? Take a look at "The River of Bees" on p.257. I think you'll find some affinities there, since he blends strangely atemporal "parable" speech with more contemporary images. It's unnerving often, his surrealism. You might try to improv off one of his poems and use some of this gorgeous language above.
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