Thursday, June 12, 2014

This is not a poem about the trees. Again.

In which we divest ourselves of the remains of the day. 

Why God. Why.
She was cooped up all day, stuck inside with air conditioning, fluorescent lights and office chairs, too much to do and all focused on tasks at hand. Two presentations and a video call so there was a certain level of adrenaline involved. Like morphing into a robo office creature, forgetting anything existing except inside the walls. Then, when she finally walked out the door, remembering herself, for the sun felt like sex on her skin and the air -- warm, fresh, full of freedom, as if she could fly home -- felt like heaven. The morning had been cool and cloudy and that memory had clung around all the work, so the afternoon clearing was a gift and everything seemed worthy of a poem: The new-blue sky, the lazy bright sun, and somehow especially the trees, the wind catching the leaves and turning the light sides up, just as she had turned her face upwards a moment earlier. But of course she had no intentions of writing poems about any of it -- the day, the sun, the trees -- but that didn't stop her from thinking about the possibilities.

It's a kind of night to listen to Sam and read a little Ray. But lots of nights are like that.

Oh baby, oh baby, oh we both know the truth / If it were the real me and you, / This wouldn't be the right thing to do / Now the room is so hazy, we're too lost in the fumes / I feel like it's just me and you, / Yeah we got nothing to lose

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