Wednesday, December 14, 2016
I'll be walking or typing or driving or talking and it will rise up in me, expand around me til it bursts -Bloomington: some odd slice of it, some span of seconds, indistinguishable from the seconds before it and after it except that it has lodged in me, worked loose. I am crouched to the lowest shelf in the bookstore that shuttered; craning my neck for deer in the secret woods; lying in the grass, hiding or waiting, while the teachers call me in; stalling my car out and out and out under grey-white sky. Year after year, once or twice a day, sometimes more frequently, never less This is how wasted love comes: in fits. I wait for it to pass.