light is harsh
and blindingly real.
You feel
you’ve one skin less,
shed like a snake.
Jittery
as a jumping bug,
you make
words leap
in your throat —
it’s easy!
You’re not remote
but calm now,
rational, unfogged,
your thoughts
more linear
than labyrinthine,
your black dog
chained and kennelled
but still in the backyard.
It’s hard
to give up everything.
Cigarette smoke
mediates your day
which dazzles
blue on blue
till you
retreat inside
for tea and promises
and lies. Your eyes
look at me sideways
but so clearly.
5 comments:
You manage to capture that onset of winter feeling very well here Robert. Somehow nothing seems so hard in Summer does it.
oh that heart-wrenching change of tone in the last stanza, so well done.
Thanks, Pat (BTW, just to explain: Weaver meant to leave this comment on yesterday's poem not this one).
As always, thanks for reading, Dritanje.
Quite chilling, Robert. This has a Plath-ian iciness to it, facing a difficult personality with those embedded rhymes and lyrical word choices.
Yes. Would perhaps say 'objective' rather than 'icy'?
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