Litany I am mercy’s wayward apprentice. I am the dubious truant of grace. I kneel at the Stations of the Cross, then climb through the shreds of a fading downpour. I am the late sun that flames through a window. I am a cityscape of wind through the alleys. I am a desert highway fringed by meadows where fields and blossoms unfold into radiance. I am a clock that needs to be wound. I am a cello that plays in the evenings, ushers in nightfall’s infallible silence, and the sweet scent of creosote in the pitch dark. I am a love you may almost remember, your mind lazing loose in imaginary elsewheres. There is no amnesty for ancient sorrows, I am the galleon, sinking, still vanishing. Winter Tourist Once, in another winter, in a village by a seaside with different accents than mine, waves crash dark against the shore and over the breakwater, a woman in a red coat hurries through her realm of kith and kin: fishermen just docked—nets and boxes brim with still moving...
Like the title says.