July 13, 2021

shades moving into shades *

Sometimes someone does really show up to help you attend to the mess you made.
Dozens of small altars erected out of gemstones and tobacco and feathers and the skulls
and bones of animals. I keep making loaves of bread. My mother, each year, sends
a pair of cashmere gloves I would never buy myself. In the mornings, the sun frees itself
of the horizon line. Sharp charcoal shapes that look like trees or mountains or
tectonic plates abutted by a miasm of color, shades moving into shades. The clouds look
meaningful, or maybe it’s just that we’re looking at them meaningfully. Maybe this
is the thing about entering a new place. You have to interrupt the proceedings. The great
cleaving from what was. The plan for tomorrow. Think what you will of this recipe. But imagine,
after a month, what kind of music we could all be making.

* This week’s poem was composed entirely of snippets from my “drafts” email folder.