things the mind tries to grasp
(which cd be a title. or not)
A chink from the past opens its eye.
Did it rain? the door slam? was it autumn, a fury wind?
the flourish of an out-of-cycle fallow year's flourish
weaving drunk through the garden. In your armchair,
our hopeful dog. And your voice,
that goose-bumped my nape, that I know
I'd glued to memory – where? –
Did you know that the mantel-clock could tak-tak-tak
into corners, cram beneath the kitchen table, clamp itself
around too much food in the pot –
Silence, imposed: the hue of tarnish. A concept glossed
in conversation is tendriling
s in ways we did not foresee:
unmussed sheets; chores –
now unshared, become endless; lost socks –
no more: they remain bolled in their wooden box;
and emailers, well-wishing, expecting thanks –
remind me...? Ah. You can't.
Another storm hits my cheeks.
Last edited by Seree Zohar; 09-21-2021 at 01:40 PM.