How she hated words, always coming between her and life I read with my eyes as I wrote into memory the perfumed treelined paradise of a particular Park Slope street; the odd aching familiarity alien calm? of the two little blonde girls selling 25¢ Oreos and 50¢ lemonade Half our proceeds go to Japan! in recyclable cups all stacked neatly on a miniature foldout picnic table with a daisied tablecloth; gusts of beach wind across an oasis of green in the middle of Brooklyn I'm on an island; people passing on the street speaking things from past pages of my script I'm trying to enjoy it while I can leaving me to my vicarious déjà vu, frenetic, heartened, overstimulated, whatever But it's better, much better, than all that old envy. No lenses, but my senses turned
all
the way
on.
all
the way
on.
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