Muddle

[rejectomorph]

Another day missed, but this time it's not PG&E's fault. It was a personal power outage this time. After shopping and then reading the Internets for a while I just ran out of energy and fell asleep, not waking up until almost midnight. It has taken this long to get my brain functioning again. I never got around to making dinner, and now I don't know if I should bother, or just microwave something, or open another can of soup. My brain may be functioning, but not very well. Even trivial decisions resist being made.

It's very cold out. I went outside, hoping the nocturnal chill would energize me, but it hasn't. Maybe I should just try to go back to sleep.




Belated Sunday Verse

by Gregory Scofield


I've Looked For You

in the blackest night, calling
at the edge of a cliff
knowing, should you answer,
I'd grow wings.

I've looked for you

in the likeliest of places:
prairie cafés, washrooms in Arizona,
airports connecting countries
and lovers and

I've seen you, tall as a cedar,
reaching to the heavens,
wings of raven on top
trimmed short, neat and convincing

my hopeful eyes
till you felt their burning
and turned around.
I've searched for you

breathless and parched
as the gauzy summer,
drank your name
from water fountains

and remained thirsty. I've pressed
my face to the very moon,
cursed the stars from the sky
knowing as I do

the dark is to blame,
how big the world really is
and chances are small, fleeting
with each passing day

and yet, I am here
falling from so many edges
even the rocks below
know your silence.

Comments

[rejectomorph]

I will never understand shall. Or shall I?

Scofield is Canadian, so he might have been a bit drank when he wrote this poem.