By Aeroplane to Iceland

By Aeroplane to Iceland
by cocteau
She looked down to the tea table, humming.
Remembering. All bird songs are learnt within
the first month after learning to fly. You always
remember where the tiger attacked you.
Like cloud-to-cloud lightning. Looking down
into the interior was a small air-pressure gauge
which pretty much told its own story.
It was a dark and stormy night. A pretty girl,
her arms stretched skyward, had the appearance
of someone in the final throes of respectable
penury. Each sin, it seems, might well be the flip
side of a virtue. All you need is a comb and
a small piece of waxed paper.
In any event, the amygdala is the hub of neural
connections formed by emotional events. Yet
our visual field terminates gently with hedgerows,
a byway lined with utility poles, wires, trees, small
frame bungalows, and eighteen words for lawn
care. A sound of thunder. Remember?
First daffodils and long excited cables. A penny
saved/ is a penny earned.

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