Now the sun is in autumn: crisp and moonlit the night before last, palely bright yesterday, today already grey and granite-clouded—if still greener—as November. More than any other, this season for me is stamped and overstamped with past years, so that there are fossils in each amber sunset, currents of faces in the chilling turn of the wind. I am returning home by an older route. I am reading by the wrong light. This is not the bed I should wake up in. Maybe it's not that the ghosts rise up at this time of year so much as I begin to feel like one myself. Two days ago, a hawk was brooding in the honey locust. The grapevines are tangling to the earth.
Links
Page Summary
Active Entries
- 1: Sit and watch my TV set
- 2: Took a left, hit a nerve, took a right, hit the curb
- 3: Keep mending broken lines
- 4: In Memphis, on Valentine's Day
- 5: Just like a bad plot, I won't tell you why
- 6: I'll ring twice, like the postman always does
- 7: How about I create a mess and then solve the mess and then I'll be a hero
- 8: There's no kind of atmosphere
- 9: Anything you crave, a certain curse
Style Credit
- Style: Classic for Refried Tablet by
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
zvi and
Expand Cut Tags
No cut tags