You love this mirage, this idea of yourself looking out on the world, when, all the while, the world is within you. And you love the sanctity of what you imagine is your private space, when that same space is outside you. And if what is outside is in, and what is inside is out, where are you, and what are you? Just what becomes of the who of you? […]
We have never seen such a wealth of mushrooms. The entire neighborhood is covered with them. They have sprung up along borders, beneath hedges; they have erupted in flower pots and lawns; they crowd the sidewalks like bubbles on the rim of a glass. At the same time, as if to reveal their darker side, the older ones have already begun to rot. At a glance they look like stranded […]
Roll was called. The words lined up in rows. What do you want to be when you grow up? Pictures or poems? Pictures! they cried out. Poems! And from that day on they all were both. [ 528 ]
As near as we are to one another, there remain galaxies between us. I call this Touch. [ 527 ]
I left the room. He followed. I poured the coffee. He drank.
I said, What is it that you want? He said, Only what you need in me.
Canvas 1,242 — October 1, 2019
[ 526 ]
A family photograph in which I look like a lost soul, or perhaps a soul that just happens to be visiting a familiar body, as the eye scans a ledger with all its columns filled but one or two, or a star a lonely field, while those around me smile, sure of themselves. It’s October, love. Now tell me how you feel. Like you. You know I do. That’s why […]
If I let go of sorrow, and pain, should I not also be willing to let go of joy? For if I cling, do I not cling to everything? September 27, 2019. The last fine sliver of a waning moon. [ 524 ]
Nothing but a ring of sand traced by hand around the ankle. Nothing but a change of weather in the hair. Nothing but a wrist amiss and blind as daytime passion. Nothing but a rising tide . . . a fragrant breath . . . a vision there. September 26, 2019 [ 523 ]
Someone says the bright new mushrooms shine like lanterns by the walk. . . . the moon? In Light Of Twenty-six degrees this morning. I wonder what I would do if I were a star? Shine like the rest of them, I suppose. And perhaps be gone by the time my light is seen in this faraway world. Lantern is a word I love. I wonder how old I […]
Oh, the fall rains! Day and night, mushrooms sprout in tender grass, and crowd my little hut. And look! Here lie my bones! September 23, 2019 [ 520 ]
William Michaelian 