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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=395321" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Why Regret</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Didn't you like the way the ants help<br>the peony globes open by eating the glue off?<br>Weren't you cheered to see the ironworkers<br>sitting on an I-beam dangling from a cable,<br>in a row, like starlings, eating lunch, maybe<br>baloney on white with fluorescent mustard?<br>Wasn't it a revelation to waggle<br>from the estuary all the way up the river,<br>the kill, the pirle, the run, the rent, the beck,<br>the sike barely trickling, to the shock of a spring?<br>Didn't you almost shiver, hearing book lice<br>clicking their sexual dissonance inside an old<br>Webster's New International, perhaps having just<br>eaten out of it izle, xyster, and thalassacon?<br>What did you imagine lies in wait anyway<br>at the end of a world whose sub-substance<br>is glaim, gleet, birdlime, slime, mucus, muck?<br>Forget about becoming emaciated. Think of the wren<br>and how little flesh is needed to make a song.<br>Didn't it seem somehow familiar when the nymph<br>split open and the mayfly struggled free<br>and flew and perched and then its own back<br>broke open and the imago, the true adult,<br>somersaulted out and took flight, seeking<br>the swarm, mouth-parts vestigial,<br>alimentary canal come to a stop,<br>a day or hour left to find the desired one?<br>Or when Casanova took up the platter<br>of linguine in squid's ink and slid the stuff<br>out the window, telling his startled companion,<br>'The perfected lover does not eat.'<br>As a child, didn't you find it calming to imagine<br>pinworms as some kind of tiny batons<br>giving cadence to the squeezes and releases<br>around the downward march of debris?<br>Didn't you glimpse in the monarchs<br>what seemed your own inner blazonry<br>flapping and gliding, in desire, in the middle air?<br>Weren't you reassured to think these flimsy<br>hinged beings, and then their offspring,<br>and then their offspring's offspring, could<br>navigate, working in shifts, all the way to Mexico,<br>to the exact plot, perhaps the very tree,<br>by tracing the flair of the bodies of ancestors<br>who fell in this same migration a year ago?<br>Doesn't it outdo the pleasures of the brilliant concert<br>to wake in the night and find ourselves<br>holding hands in our sleep?</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Galway+Kinnell">Galway Kinnell</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=395321" data-title="Why Regret de Galway Kinnell" data-description="Didn't you like the way the ants help
the peony globes open by eating the glue off?
Weren't you cheered to see the ironworkers
sitting on an I-beam dangling from a cable,
in a row, like starlings, eating lunch, maybe
baloney on white with fluoresc..."></div>
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