When: A Sunny Afternoon
So the girl finally picked up the New Yorker from the rack... She felt the urge to own it in desperation... Only because it had what she craved to read for a while... The poem that can’t be written...
is different from the poem
that is not written, or the many
that are never finished—those boats
lost in the fog, adrift
in the windless latitudes,
the charts useless, the water gone.
In the poem that cannot
be written there is no danger,
no ponderous cargo of meaning,
no meaning at all. And this
is its splendor, this is how
it becomes an emblem,
not of failure or loss,
but of the impossible.
So the wind rises. The tattered sails
billow, and the air grows sweeter.
A green island appears.
Everyone is saved.
-- by Lawrence Raab
Everyone is saved, she is thinking... While puffing on her never ending tobacco, she read it again and again then wrapped it up in those magical hours that flied as fast as the smoke vanished in to the blue sky... She came back home with an empty mind and a bunch of yellow tulips by her side...
Just before the snow started to seize the sunny ride...