I go out, a sorcerer, in the dark, damp, early morning air
flicking my eyes towards the shadow of a passing thought
shedding my skin for the coming day.
That song comes on, and I try not to let it register.
We are, all of us, whirling galaxies
asleep but awake
crashing
crashing
into one another
and then falling apart
again and again
"...nice to hold...when I'm tired..."
A breeze sends a chill down my spine
and I realize
I let myself fall sad
an oak tree struck by lightning
"...when I die...will I go..."
I go out, a sorcerer, in the dark, damp early morning air.
Oct 7, 2018
Oct 7, 2018 at 5:56 PM UTC
I go out, a sorcerer, in the dark, damp, early morning air
flicking my eyes towards the shadow of a passing thought
shedding my skin for the coming day.
That song comes on, and I try not to let it register.
We are, all of us, whirling galaxies
asleep but awake
crashing
crashing
into one another
and then falling apart
again and again
"...nice to hold...when I'm tired..."
A breeze sends a chill down my spine
and I realize
I let myself fall sad
an oak tree struck by lightning
"...when I die...will I go..."
I go out, a sorcerer, in the dark, damp early morning air.
Reworking of an Ann Sexton poem
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