A Woman in Belgium

As afternoon deepens, the temperatures drop. Emily Dickinson’s death again. There were more storms as a child or am I saying something about memories or even selves? The earth allows us to walk, is the earth therefore in some way walking? Moss scales the front yard maples, no dialogue with it possible as yet. At a distance the mountain appears to be a smooth curve, yet the closer one comes the more deviation they notice. Do the sentences include references to current events or, more to the point, is there such a thing as non-current events? Adapting Socratic methods to where they’re least expected, not making friends thereby. Finding stuff rather than making it, that’s my jam. The fatigue which entered my life around twenty-one or so appears to be ready to leave, taking with it coffee. Plague tenors. Entering the kitchen, saying “I don’t know why I’m here” to which Chrisoula responds, “title of your autobiography, no?” I remember being disappointed with a woman in Belgium, I don’t know why, but I’m confident now it was mutual. You look into the mirror and it threatens to tell you something you don’t want to hear so you mentally talk over it: that voice is the real image. Gnawing at the bonds. Something broken in me that’s broken in all of us – please stop asking me to pretend I'm alone.