The 280 pound sophomore says, during a pause in the workshop, I go to school, I go to my part time job, I sleep. Sometimes I play games on my computer. Then I do it all over again.
All morning in the Triangle, the workers are setting up tarp, small platforms, brochure holders. Tall ships will ride into the harbor tomorrow, white sails unfurled.
Out of the blue, the landlady writes to ask what the backyard looks like now that the cypress trees have been cut down.
I snap a photo and hours later, notice that moss has grown between the bricks on the walk. There is no error here.
In a book I come across the words romantic dogs, penned in the margins. The handwriting is unfamiliar.
Dust filters down in the late afternoon sunlight. The blinds need cleaning.
I cannot remember how many funeral parlors there were between the City Hall and the church.
A stand of pampas grass gave me my first paper cut. Green against gravel. And then the surprising streak of blood.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.
OTHER POSTS IN THE SERIES
- Bel Canto
- In the Summer Capital
- The Hourglass
- Frost has silvered the grass
- Fragment of a Poem Disguised as SPAM
- Clear bulb of coral inside a paper shade,
- Private: Translucent in the sun, the laurel is a blaze of gloss—
- Kissing the Wound
- Fire Report
- Dear animal of my deepest need, you want to linger
- Ghazal, a la Cucaracha
- Heartache Ghazal
- Ghazal: Some ways to live
- What heart heard of, ghost guessed:
- A single falling note above
- La Caminata
- Dear nearly weightless day,
- Ghazal of the 1 o’clock caller looking for Pomona
- Breaking the Curse
- Milflores, Milflores
- Bad Script
- Ghazal of the Eternal Return
- Letter to the Underneath
- Tall Ships
- Beneath one layer, another and
- Landscape, with Summer Bonfires
- Dear language, most thick