terça-feira, novembro 13, 2012

Nobody plans to be a ghost

Things keep sorting themselves

Does the butterfat know it is butterfat,
milk know it’s milk?
Something just goes and something remains.
Like a boardinghouse table:
men on one side, women on the other.
Nobody planned it.
Plaid shirts next to one another,
talking in accents from the Midwest.
Nobody plans to be a ghost.
Later on, the young people sit in the kitchen.
Soon enough, they’ll be the ones
to stumble Excuse me and quickly withdraw.
But they don’t know that.
No one can ever know that.
— Jane Hirshfield

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