I splashed through the puddles, running,
but when I got to the black door to the black box it was shut. Rain ignored the umbrella and a streetlamp pooled around my feet. I stood under the peak of the storm at the end of a long lovely week. Late for the theater, locked out, I was waiting in the set of a scene of slow revelation. There's no sudden lightening, but a look up, and after a moment the heroine walks thoughtfuly home after something small like missing a curtain, a friend, a train moves her to contemplation. She doesn't pay mind to the rain. The ponderous gait contrasts with the haste, the hurry to get there.
Sometimes it doesn't all fit. Stuffing everything in and you fall apart at the seams. Seems I've mostly made it safely to the shore of the weekend. Waited, I didn't crash until I could crawl up on the bank and lie heavy on the sand or in my sheets, drained but wet with fresh water experiences. With muscles quiet, thinking there are only 24, thinking sometimes sleep might be ok or make all easier, thinking if I did it over I wouldn't choose to sleep through any of the wave after wave on wave of my week. Don't like easy anyways. There's only one world and there's so much of it. But if you don't think constantly "only connect" and conjunctions, it gets fragmented. Thought frags are what's left, just the ones that didn't make the final draft. Rest have been written into the week without rest. The longest, loveliest week. Too weak to tell it whole. The restless week, turning, twisting towards this tired satisfied end.
Sometimes it doesn't all fit. Stuffing everything in and you fall apart at the seams. Seems I've mostly made it safely to the shore of the weekend. Waited, I didn't crash until I could crawl up on the bank and lie heavy on the sand or in my sheets, drained but wet with fresh water experiences. With muscles quiet, thinking there are only 24, thinking sometimes sleep might be ok or make all easier, thinking if I did it over I wouldn't choose to sleep through any of the wave after wave on wave of my week. Don't like easy anyways. There's only one world and there's so much of it. But if you don't think constantly "only connect" and conjunctions, it gets fragmented. Thought frags are what's left, just the ones that didn't make the final draft. Rest have been written into the week without rest. The longest, loveliest week. Too weak to tell it whole. The restless week, turning, twisting towards this tired satisfied end.
