He bowed his head into a coffin
and a yellow fluid
ran from his mouth
onto the floor.
pretend that you live near a stream
and the water of that stream makes strangers fall asleep
and when they sleep, they are vulnerable
pretend that your blood is wanted and you’re running
you always wanted to be on the run,
because fear frees flightless birds
pretend you are young
pretend you have romance on your side
we could go sledding if you weren’t cold,
we could go skating if you weren’t cold,
we could do anything but you’re fading
My neighbor has not played clarinet for weeks—there were no sounds, there was no
music. A drought of music. A curse of lingering, stagnation, with no sign—no
promise—just the emptiness like a blank, opaque circle—and I was at the center
of it--
Until today. I can
breathe again—finally free from the weighted responsibility of suspense.
Momentarily.
The swan has
returned.
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