Le beau nom grave de tristesse
Gone Fishin’
And filled with the heavy toosweet smell of roses.
Too hot.
An airless room.
But she was here to see that everything was all right, went all right.
She leaned toward him, ever so slightly.
His manner confidential, his eyes widening a little.
There are always so many details.
Gone Fishin’
This is good. This is wonderful.
That was all he asked, all he wanted.
He couldn’t see where he was going.
He was doing the kind of work he loved.
The place where it ought to be.
He drew his hand away, and it would reach out again.
He kept reaching toward the wall.
He had never stopped to study the wall.
We’ll all go exploring.
It’s such fun to go somewhere, not knowing where you’re going.
That’s the way I feel about it, too.
You feel as though you had made a personal discovery.
You’d be surprised at the things you find.
Did you ever find anything wonderful that way?
No one knew how old he was.
He left right afterwards.
He knew that there was something wrong.
He’d done a good job.
It was one of those mornings when he felt like singing.
There ain’t no place for nobody to go.
I haven’t any idea where she goes.
I was thinking about something else.
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