Anti positivism
The skin on my shoulders peels.
Slack and careless, I was out all
afternoon in a meadow. Ever cannot
tell the wide openness. The shades
half-drawn now. Unblinking, I see
gliding lightning through bottom
heavy clouds, those I should know
the names of from grade school
as if I didn’t strain and hope listening
would ferry me. Because we learned
the devil beating his wife means sun
shower, special weather. I didn’t
ration an entire day for just normal
aging. I rub my eyes until little
cobwebs roll into my sight, an
irregularity that does not concern,
flitting waifish like smoke wisps
after a candle is blown out. It’s
always expanse, a flare that spoons
and spreads its full-bodied shape
on the bed. I put a security bar
against the front doorknob but
I still roll over and wake held by
it, unceremonious and drenched
in sweat. Wind, yet again.
Image Credit: Clouds, Johan Hagemeyer / The Met.
