Declan's Corrective: Um. Alright, uh. This one doesn't have a name, yet. [clears throat]
When I was young I saw my father on Tuesday afternoons
A tray of fruit and a cup of juice, and little else between us
In search of more one week I thought I'd bring some questions to him
Because I knew so little but I knew he answered questions
My head was filled with textbook descriptions and encyclopedic depictions
Of places I'd hoped he'd seen in ways that go beyond curt summaries, white indices, quick glossaries
And dreamed he'd have some deeper knowledge, real knowledge,
Dirt under fingernails, the smells they don't write about
And people with names and ugly faces
And places not like the ones I saw on broadcast news
So I put my juice down, and I asked him what the world was like,
The real world, far away from the one out my window, on my wall, in my mind
The world I didn't have words for yet
And my father said I knew all the places worth knowing
But I decided he was wrong
And he said there was only here and there and here was all I needed
Tell me about a place you loved
And he said the house he grew up in always had dried flowers
Tell me about a place I haven't been
And he said there is a place
Have no place for laws, even the law of gravity
And there are no real people there and there are no real names and the flowers never really dry
And he looked me in the eye and said,
The Twilight Mirage is a place of blue bread and white strawberries.
Blue bread, and white strawberries,
Blue bread, and white strawberries,
Not because I hadn't seen mold,
But because I hadn't yet learned
To make a meal of the world
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