"globule" poems - Hello Poetry

We lived briefly outside and at once all of our one lives one innocuous evening. I think it must’ve been a round ten. We’d gone, really and already, in every sense, a-stoop-smoking to clear the air of Murakami and his personal identity. I guess we knew we’d end up breathing significantly before time came to shepherd us back in. On the stoop, aglow in rosewood smoke, in the streaked light of our chosen nostalgia and strawberry hope, we pointed to things we really saw—everything—pressing their dimensions sharp through the buttery plaster of our personal identities, like certain words I happened to glimpse, in and out of Murakami. I was startled when a car cut through the viscous street in front of me like a hand underneath a piece of cloth. It bent still shadows around a perfect globule of movement and returned each to rest only after each of its past moments had passed. That’s when I saw my smoke trail slowly leave me, unapologetically, heading across the invisible prairie on its horses to drink by the bending river in the street. It asked me if I knew, now, why I should come along. I pointed and asked: What was that I just saw? Where? There by the street. What was that? Oh, that was just antlers on a fire truck this past Wednesday. I don’t understand. Of course you don’t. You won’t remember I said it. Then why’d you say it? To remind you you’ll forget. Oh, I see. Thank you, then. I was about to forget I’d forget. Now I know I never will.

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Mar 27, 2012

Mar 27, 2012 at 5:46 PM UTC

daniello

Antlers on a Firetruck This Past Wednesday

We lived briefly outside and at once all of our one lives one innocuous evening. I think it must’ve been a round ten. We’d gone, really and already, in every sense, a-stoop-smoking to clear the air of Murakami and his personal identity. I guess we knew we’d end up breathing significantly before time came to shepherd us back in. On the stoop, aglow in rosewood smoke, in the streaked light of our chosen nostalgia and strawberry hope, we pointed to things we really saw—everything—pressing their dimensions sharp through the buttery plaster of our personal identities, like certain words I happened to glimpse, in and out of Murakami. I was startled when a car cut through the viscous street in front of me like a hand underneath a piece of cloth. It bent still shadows around a perfect globule of movement and returned each to rest only after each of its past moments had passed. That’s when I saw my smoke trail slowly leave me, unapologetically, heading across the invisible prairie on its horses to drink by the bending river in the street. It asked me if I knew, now, why I should come along. I pointed and asked: What was that I just saw? Where? There by the street. What was that? Oh, that was just antlers on a fire truck this past Wednesday. I don’t understand. Of course you don’t. You won’t remember I said it. Then why’d you say it? To remind you you’ll forget. Oh, I see. Thank you, then. I was about to forget I’d forget. Now I know I never will.