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   s c a p e g o a t 's    r e h e a r s a l

--- C O L E T T E   D E D O N A T O

It seems I have two lives: one blighted by worry
and the indignity of useless regretting,
the other a kind of windy, unmeasured grace
marked by intermissions of nonsense.

What could have been half an eyeful of history, the brutal blood running through me, transposes itself like a child's play or

laughter turning its shiny belly towards the light, just as winter adds to the poetry of a house dominated by straight lines.

Contradiction is the test of necessity, you say. So where do you rightfully belong in the second act of becoming? If I have a red window I cant see my room as anything but pink.

I have no answers that I know of.

Sometimes the words don't arrive, just their sounds.

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