52/430: Means

[rejectomorph]

As the weather gets warmer it grows more difficult for me to sleep comfortably. The nights are still cool enough that I can chill the apartment for a while, but that's going to get more difficult. Sunday's high will be in the nineties, as will six of the next ten days. Next Wednesday will reach only 77, but three other days will be in the eighties. Most of the nights will drop into the sixties, but three will be in the fifties. So it's not horrendous yet, but it's trending that way.

Last night's dinner did not turn our as well as I'd hoped, and I have the makings for two more of the same, though I can vary the spicing and the cooking style, which I hope will improve them. I did buy some stuff for sandwiches once the days stat getting even hotter, and I look forward both to the minimal cooking and the minimal effort. Not to mention the ease of cleanup. I'll be missing my baked potatoes and yams, but summer foods have their virtues. I can live with that. I sort of have to, I guess.




Sunday Verse

Scheherazade

by Richard Siken


Tell me about the dream where we pull the bodies out of the lake
and dress them in warm clothes again.
How it was late, and no one could sleep, the horses running
until they forget that they are horses.
It's not like a tree where the roots have to end somewhere,
it's more like a song on a policeman's radio,
how we rolled up the carpet so we could dance, and the days
were bright red, and every time we kissed there was another apple
to slice into pieces.
Look at the light through the windowpane. That means it's noon, that means
we're inconsolable.
Tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us.
These, our bodies, possessed by light.
Tell me we'll never get used to it.