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   d u s t    a n d    m i s t

--- P A T R I C K   K E L L Y

...all poets love dust and mist because all the last answers go running back to dust and mist. --Carl Sandburg

There are no answers for you here because there are no answers for anyone, only contrivances, only frustrations. I am one of them. If I look down through my new glasses the floor seems far away. My feet curve at the edge of the lenses, an illusion I hope goes away. I have been on my feet all day long. My feet hurt. The arches are flat, therefore no longer arches. I don't know how long I can hold up without arches, without support. If I were a bridge I would want to be a suspension bridge. If I were a church I would want to be a cathedral with flying buttresses. Flying buttresses are curiously named, extending arm-like to provide support, not flying nor flapping, just steady. I am crumbling. I don't hate you nearly as much as I hate myself. If you stop crying I might stop sulking. I woke up early to watch you sleep but you were awake before me again. If I had enough money I would buy those special shoes that help your arches. My arches. It doesn't work because it can never work. That is my answer but it is no real answer. Have I ever been involved in anything that does work? There is a cathedral in Spain that's been half built since the 1890's so get off my back for ten minutes.

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