At all exits we announce the weather, verifying expectation and aligning perception; each utterance a well-worn habit’s slip.
It’s a national tic; months ago we lamented the wall of sweat simmering off the asphalt, each in turn: the heat, the heat, the heat. Now, half an ellipse through the dark we clip in kind with sharp shudders: the cold, the cold, the cold.
At the uncompromising sky’s behest, platitudes move like intention’s lingua franca. Not so long ago we knew each other; our hearts did not need to learn these words under the greased hand of polite adulthood. Our habits are the same, but we are new. We are bundles of disparate momentum.
(kimchi poem #1)
No comments:
Post a Comment