in crisis rather than in accretion

In Crisis Rather Than in Accretion

A pensive face, not necessarily kind-looking, but full of thought,

would clamber around on the rubbish dump all day long

with a plush stuffed pelvis and a slightly soiled baby doll

unbearably alive in each of them, alive and rash and scrambling

the past. Never regret. Even if there is emptiness ahead, never

attempt to turn her silence into something noble, when all

mine, which was cold and long and garishly informative,

were the remains of a bottle of Great Wall Red Wine in the

chickens, this one chicken, this one essential chicken--but

picking things up, studying them carefully, and putting them

through thin forests of scraggly trees, across a bleak and desolate

change, and so forth--could become imbedded in, or pass through,

arguing about what to watch on TV and pretty soon the

truth there just wasn't one that was right. What a shame! So I

could bear almost anything but breaking.