One is black, one is white.
Both are black, both are white.
Only two: there are no more.
But you need four in proper war.
Neither bishops nor a night.
One is black, both are white.
Built as towers for the fight.
Both are black, but one is white.
I’m reading through old journals.
Sometimes, when you’re adrift (yeah, maybe I’m a little adrift) it helps to look back and see where you’ve been. Often it ain’t that far from where you are: boring bitching blather. You have to dig through a lot of dross to find anything remotely resembling a jewel, or even a shiny bit of glass.
I was going through a book from a year I spent as a stay-at-home dad with my then infant son. I found the above doodle, just sitting there, seemingly sui generis, no notes sketching up to it, looking for all the world like nothing I ever wrote. A little more digging helped me remember it is probably something I wrote to include in a long-since-abandoned children’s story. I now vaguely recall composing it in toto in the tub one night; then jotting it down, still dripping.
Anyway, like I say, it’s nothing. But it’s also like nothing I’ve ever written, and that’s probably why it charms me. Hope you like it too.
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