Like years before
after Wistful sounds like a brand of air freshener by Bob Hicok
after Wistful sounds like a brand of air freshener by Bob Hicok
I want to place my head on a shoulder of gleamed dew,
calm on pale grass. Want to lie on the cool of a waking land, sitting in
window-shaped sun as I watch the days roll off me. Because at this moment
I only wish for rain to paint me in its forgettable sheened white, dreaming of a sadness
more conceivable, of a warmth combed more deftly soft.
I hope to one day read poetry again to fallen leaves on gravel paths
and hear my damp words echo through blue streets. Remembering what
breathing feels like while leaning out into the open sea, lit by a single boat. Feeling the
last of summer weave through my hair, loosening braids matted dry. There are now
new blooms growing on roadside shrubs, and it is October. I remind myself
sentences don’t have to be long to accommodate lost meaning, and that
two hands clasped loose can be enough. So I will take the longer drive back home
under darkening skies with whistles for radio hums, listening to how a day melts at my ankles.
I’ll watch coastal lights caress floorboards, let dim music play through the night,
with long love hanging from my eyes.
calm on pale grass. Want to lie on the cool of a waking land, sitting in
window-shaped sun as I watch the days roll off me. Because at this moment
I only wish for rain to paint me in its forgettable sheened white, dreaming of a sadness
more conceivable, of a warmth combed more deftly soft.
I hope to one day read poetry again to fallen leaves on gravel paths
and hear my damp words echo through blue streets. Remembering what
breathing feels like while leaning out into the open sea, lit by a single boat. Feeling the
last of summer weave through my hair, loosening braids matted dry. There are now
new blooms growing on roadside shrubs, and it is October. I remind myself
sentences don’t have to be long to accommodate lost meaning, and that
two hands clasped loose can be enough. So I will take the longer drive back home
under darkening skies with whistles for radio hums, listening to how a day melts at my ankles.
I’ll watch coastal lights caress floorboards, let dim music play through the night,
with long love hanging from my eyes.