A LITTLE FAMILY    /     Kathryn Rantala

 

 

When the cat goes out one night and fails to return, he takes all the good ideas with him.

 

Sometimes my mind is so full I must dismount and proceed on foot, supported by angels.

 

The human fear of standing under a ledge may be overcome by habitually seeking out a sunny place to stand.

 

As circular as yearning, like a ghost that cannot kiss, beauty poured to pour again—what good could come of this?

 

So much in life goes uncared for.

 

Absence rubs on absence like a thought.

 

…: goodness often a bore to so many.

 

Fortunately, the damage is visible only close up though once seen, the speculation it invites is unsettling.

 

“The tender self is animal, my friend.”

 

Everything moves toward destination, and all music toward the conductor, the home of what it means to create.

 

Asleep, dead, alive—who was I to say they had to be anything?

 

My hand was by now almost a being of its own going resolvedly forth (though what it understood of true search, I don‘t know.) In alarm, I bent down a bit more and leaned in so I could see it again—see if I still recognized it, if it would come when I called—and as I did so, for the briefest of moments, I thought I saw another hand approaching from the opposite direction, feeling toward mine as if to seek it out.

 

Desire is the most unaccommodating sense.

 

Well, I do not believe in mirrors and the evening was getting on and on, so I stood up and let the whole matter go.

 

Sunday, the traditional morning of regret.

 

I believe that in their hearts, even the smallest animals sense what they are.

 

At night my heart weighs itself against its better deeds and is not light.

 

Sometimes I just have to sit and let everything come at me from all sides.

 

I believe in expectations as well as embarrassment…

 

Luck is not the opposite of sadness but similar to it, as death is to swamp weeds for a mallard.

 

“Things can disappear when you not looking at them.”

 

The aim of imprecision all equal, I aim to connect epiphanies.

 

Sometimes the injured animal does not, after all, turn toward you or open its eyes. 

 

Nearer to me, over the rooftop chimneys, the silhouettes of trees seem to be waving for help.

 

Something always leaves the door open, one must be careful not to fall out of it.

 

Every nest, a tree.

 

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