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.
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Active Entries
- 1: Waiting for you to call me up and tell me I'm not alone
- 2: It's two in the afternoon and thirty-four degrees
- 3: Don't know me now, then you'll never know me later
- 4: I know you're waiting for me in secret places
- 5: Do you believe a person should be some kind of answer?
- 6: How do we sleep while our beds are burning?
- 7: But I was cruising Gawain in the mist
- 8: All of it's golden, my body is floating, I'm still alive
- 9: Why don't you ever let me love you?
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