seems like a long, long time (at least until next July, perhaps New Year’s).
You weep.
In the morning: again the sun shines.
You awaken hungry with the familiar, forlorn look betraying the riders you will pass at the bus stop, the eateries still shuttered.
This is how you recognize it.
The blue sky and blue ocean, the east-west spans of the bridges opening and closing, north and south, on the hour and half hour or quarter after and quarter ‘til. The white sails, et cetera, et cetera, (see above). Yet the east-west spans of bridge are now little comfort in their daily operation. The warning bell marking how the days & months will pass: by the hour and the half hour, at quarter after and quarter ‘til, a constant rising and falling. A great breath.
Lest it be overlooked, do not forget that the bridges’ finite span is swimmable, though the modern machine would be left behind.
After night fall: discard the modern machine where the sidewalk ends, the past morning feeling like two yesterdays ago. Walk the hill to the asphalt drive, ascend the three open-backed flights to the chamber, listening to the sound of nothing now that it’s night.
Let the door moan with your entering.
See that the bed is still empty and unmade. ♦
Em Faerman | 7