Monday, November 26, 2012

Yesterday at Dusk

Yesterday at dusk I watched snowflakes cross the face of the waxing moon which later faded behind piles of cloud. At 4 a.m. you never walk alone. First the dog's prints fade, then one's own. I slept, dreamed of death, and kept sleeping. Silence, that one.

And woke you to complain without actually complaining. We come to the shame, the guilt, the oh-no-I'm-doing-it-again and then what. I mean it: then what? Dance lessons as a metaphor for prayer. I remember you mostly leaving the library.

The ice melts, bankers grow fangs, and Jesus continues the long walk to nowhere. Sunlight? The dog's prints fade and then you can't really make out yours either. Here is the house I grew up in and here is the house in which I now live. One more cup of coffee might be enough.

What can you do when the writing disappoints but keep writing? Emerson wears me out but his protégé not so much. Train tracks, empty wine bottles, that sort of thing. A thousand yesterdays multiplied by nine equals whose lifetime? Start over with an empty room and a north-facing chair and see what gives.

No comments:

Post a Comment