Remnant
Longboats
are crashing into the shore, spilling raiders, who are interested in careers in
finance, in social reform, in proliferating methods to raise test scores all
the while searching for footholds in the steep pages of the New York Times. Even
as we, looking back, want to find our ghosts, the revenants who will condemn us
and thus allow us a place in the stupid story—and yet what we find is again
only the bright purple flowers that only bloom for two weeks in our back yard, our
spouse’s bare feet which tap as she speaks, a dead bee, and all these pieces exploding
out booming, shifting between meaning something and not. What I want is
probably not even worth it if I can imagine it; it’s just another trap. So if
you imagine a time, say “now” or “25,000 years ago” an eight-hour span dissipates
into itself, into you, into the idea of Vikings returning to camp after a long
day of pillaging.
