Spirit of spring, will you open this door that has been closed for months or years; and by the new light that hits the sundial an hour shy of last week, will you make this room a new room, this road a new road, and this threshold a ladder and skylight into a windy night of the old form. Schwärmerei and soledad—not the soledad of going home to a dark living room, but the ostinato soledad of looking at the Pleiades, that we’re going to die and not learn anything, not unless I get back, right now, and write it down. Which means: there is still some wine left at the bottom of my soul.
A cold current, but it’s not like they didn’t mark the exits. I have always done best calling out from behind a curtain. I hope I’m not hurting anyone.
