Marcescence
I stood by the window so long watching the wind I became my own portrait trapped in a moment behind the glass. But time stopped which meant there couldn’t be wind anymore.
Some say the problem is that there are too few poets. A shortage of metaphor. And so everything gets assigned to one side of the equation or the other. Others say the problem is too many poets. Everything subject to interpretation. Even I have become one. Certainly this is worse.
Marcescence is when trees cling to their dead leaves all through the winter. My hands are empty but I cannot remember what it was that I released.
I spent the rest of the night watching films of the thoughts of the mentally ill. The door was unlocked but leaving verboten. Every creak in the house was just ghosts removing the nails one by one.
Every loss is a thick scar that becomes twice as hard to cut. But the knives get sharper.
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