I still find myself haunted by red trucks, and the gravity of complicated dreams. The morning is calm and distant; it is weightless and clear and cool. Someone is making coffee. The squirrels' chase and chatter, an early sprinkler's clatter:
chhhk
chhhk
chhhk
kkkksssssshhhhhh
Far away, I am giving up the revolution; I am settling on terms, I am ceding ground. I remember your back, curving, digging a cat's grave, stooped in sorrow. I think of other ghosts -- presences measured solely by the weight of their own nonexistence, an empty outline suggesting the shape of what's missing. Other ghosts.
paint cracks on my fingers
morning lingers
No comments:
Post a Comment