I've got so little to say, and so little beauty with which to say it. This is my favorite season, so I should be perkier, but instead I feel like I'm running from something that scares me, hiding, denying. It could be that this time last year, I was about to realize that my mother was dying. And it's September 11, and my cat is sick, and my sleep patterns are screwed up.
I'll try to do better. I started to write a poem about a girl on a train on the way to college, but it started to depress me as well, so I stopped.
It’s always cold on the train
and I pull my scarf tighter. Not Isadora-tight;
we haven’t reached that place yet.
Behind me is my first love. Before me,
maps with scales I can’t read,
books thick as pedestals,
other young people unzipped,
chapped, bruises on their knees
under paisley skirts.
I really need joy to work. This gloom just smudges everything it touches.
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