Friday, March 25, 2016

the streets.

in an edward hopper painting: there are fuzzy, soft refractions of light hitting the street. the streetlamps
think they know what their restrictions are, staying
fond of them.
the fuzzy circular lights fade as i dream less of escape. intermittently, i take

it all back. i lose interest
in making a sacrifice, or doing
anything, really, out of obligation.

there isn't a solid pool of light to fall into
except they are still there- at least, something
you can lap at,
regretting moving away from
a desire so beloved
in the first place, praying that this will

calm you, hush you- this

is what
it's all come down
to.

a crushed
hydranga blows gently from a lawn nearby. a blue
hydranga, bleeding purple life. it'd been
stepped on- neighborhood boys couldn't
resist. this pom-pom
is resisting dying, so it
dies slowly (the most pathetic thing

you can do).

its
majesty unknown, hidden
until desperation was known.
my limits screech upward with the dawn, hissing

off tar.