Daisies


Go ahead: say what you’re thinking. The garden
is not the real world. Machines
are the real world. Say frankly what any fool
could read in your face: it makes sense
to avoid us, to resist 
nostalgia. It is 
not modern enough, the sound the wind makes 
stirring a meadow of daisies: the mind 
cannot shine following it. And the mind 
wants to shine, plainly, as 
machines shine, and not 
grow deep, as, for example, roots. It is very touching, 
all the same, to see you cautiously
approaching the meadow’s border in early morning, 
when no one could possibly 
be watching you. The longer you stand at the edge, 
the more nervous you seem. No one wants to hear 
impressions of the natural world: you 
will be laughed at again; scorn will be 
piled on you. As for what you’re actually 
hearing this morning: think twice 
before you tell anyone what was said in this field 
and by whom.

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