Thursday, November 30, 2017

wounds are singing

One long dreg from the cup of cool wine
bursts over my hot anger.

Stomach distended, appendix about to burst;
Heart clogged from too many
Tuesday french fries.

One quick car trip—
to cool down.
Notice—
the bagged fruit
still on the trees.
In a word,
premature.
Over-eager for the under-ripe.

Words are ringing, wounds singing.
Wafting off my skin like steam,
rage ripples into cold night air.

You have stolen my solitude from me,
Pillaged my quiet, turned it to loneliness.

I never close my windows,
(unless it's well below freezing)
too afraid of suffocation,
of roasting alive in manufactured heat.
Keep one ajar to cool my room,
my fuming,
my overworked computer.

It's a mild night—
it used to snow in November.
Now students wear shorts—
my window is open,

as is Walton Rehearsal Hall's.
I hear the strains of the choir,
preparing for lessons and carols.
My favorite, I remembered
as their song filters through the window,
visible as sunbeams

For Christ is coooooomiing 
golden bars on dust
is coming soooooon
resolving in
For Christ is 
cooooommiingggg
sooooon.

Reminds me of the rehearsal room's warm glow
on winter nights.
Reminds me of the dark blue shirt I used to wear
(lord, such terrible style I had)
of sitting next to my best friend—
in anger and in fun,
depression and joy—

Sounds like community and love.
Sounds of community and love
restoring sweetness to the solitude.

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