Below the clouds,
where thick rain and individuals meet . . .
what combination of dos and don’ts in my final years,
when there is little time to calculate and
less to conceive—to outlive one’s life—
a life once unconsidered, without end, a beginning,
not even a process, but as obvious as an apple.
One reaches a stasis, then repeats—like wringing suds
out of an old washcloth.
By the time you have perfected a style, wrote Orwell,
you have always outgrown it.
a style, no, not a fashion, which is negation,
ineptitude, despair, misdirection, but an assignment,
The blue sky seems clear now, but
if one focuses, at tall buildings,
for instance, one notices hovering at their pinnacle a thin
and perpetual haze, a mist, pollution? . . . Rain is soothing,
is apparent, offers no expectation. I’ve passed through
it (an indefinite “it”) before, and a second time . . . . now.
“It” is neither hateful nor despairing, just insensate.
Not a burning out but a burning in. A kind of
wound one has closeted
for decades but has gradually lost control of.
The thin line between loneness and loneliness,
soaked by the same,
interpretations, desires, assumptions, lies—
as if they could be used over and over. Clouds or not.
To accept that, all this time, realizing you
have been one of those lies.