sunday, january 26
it must be sixty degrees in the sun
so i buy beer and sit at the glass-topped table
outside my door, drinking it and staring off
into the middle distance
the sky and the clouds and the rocks on the hills
are illuminated, suspended in the instantaneous
significance of late afternoon light on
the edge of the rockies
everything has taken on the appearance
of being exactly what it is
all things are as they are
the beer is cheap, sugary and poisonous
my neighbor's kid is playing in the driveway
a stereo leaks reggae through some half-open door
i keep thinking that i should write a poem
about being a small stone falling through
still water
i'm suddenly hungry, and feeling too in love
with my own sense of desolation to
mess around in the kitchen and disturb its symmetry
i decide to go across the street for food
and as i walk the wind starts to life and
the air becomes winter air again
the bluegray clouds on the eastern edge of things
shift in mind to the color of future weather
the lot at oskar's is full, and
there's a gathering in the basement
bar, rife with the middle-aged in dark-colored
cold-weather coats, ordering drinks in the
uncertain tones of people who don't often drink
eventually i notice a "happy 60th birthday!" sign
when i shuffle home, full of
pale ale and ersatz mexican food
i collapse directly into bed and dream elaborate
dreams full of unattainable things
later when i wake up and part the curtains to look
out the front door, fat flakes of snow are
falling through the night time dark.