A Room Full of Dew [repost]
Outside, out back, the leaves are invisible. Some small creature, a mouse? chipmunk? scratches the wall near the bathroom window. I find the light, the sink, the mirror, then sink them all back into black.
A clock describes its wardrobe. Early (where). Twenty-two minutes before seven (here) and I become a lonely block of light on a small white screen in a dim pine-paneled room. I am becoming words doubting themselves, fingers estranged from routine but otherwise trying their sinew, one ear dragged by the dull of a sky-scratched plane. A right eye caught by first sight of new blue.
The second just before the seam of night is ripped and day pours in has no name. It knows every name and whispers them. Some will not turn their heads toward it again. Some, pretending, do not hear. Fresh, fatigued, a fog. Bluing across a room of dew. Someone watches paltry clouds from a large hospital bed. The scratch of airplane engines in their ears. There is a state between us. Almost two.
Recessed lighting, from a certain angle, imitates the moon. A moth misunderstands the worth of glass. It’s trash day, the trucks reminder. What isn’t wrapped in wind and edified can only wait to come alive.
[originally posted in Maroon Almanac on September 16, 2024]