The snow and the twilight have turned the air as cloudy blue as seaglass, so that trees, telephone poles, houses with yellow-lit windows, fade off much more quickly into the dusk as into fog. I shoveled the front walk and the driveway twice in the same hour and they don't look it. Three days ago, I walked into Harvard Square under such warmth of the sun that I was carrying my jacket over my arm before I'd gotten ten feet from the subway, thinking that any day now I could sing "Wild Mountain Thyme." This ghost-blue storm is midwinter, not less than a week from spring. I baked apples for dessert; I'm translating Greek lyric. Right now, I can live with this.
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Page Summary
Active Entries
- 1: Once you've gone, remains the question, baby
- 2: Life, a series of memorials and signals
- 3: Does everybody know he's a ghost?
- 4: Broken like the earth or a name for a first love or a lesson in shame
- 5: I want to show you all the versions of myself
- 6: If you don't want the death of the party after I'm gone, sing one for me
- 7: That gossip's eye will look too soon
- 8: I left my mind behind in 2015
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