Wordsworth

While on the cliffs I thought of the poem Wordsworth wrote about his solitary highland lass.

I am solitary too, I live alone and spend most of days that way.

A wolf to his singing bird.



O listen! for the Vale profound

Is overflowing with the sound.


A poet, a writer, a man who lived his life, he heard her sing and grew enchanted. I grow enchanted to, with words and sounds. He took only moments, slim seconds on highlands and I want to smash my bones on the ocean's iron.



I am greedy for sensation, ravenous for experiences of detail and texture, for memories. I want to take apart every moment of desire, every moment of want, to feel every divided second of a slap. I want all his bites to linger even as I’m silently begging for them to stop. The scope and depth of my want can, at times, terrify me. Knives and pins and crops and canes and teeth and razors and leather and rubber and jute and ice and wax and skin skin skin.


Nothing is inconsiderable.