bricolage

redhead • editor • traveller • expat • rarely seen without coffee and glasses • essentially a mix of combeferre and bahorel, in tall boots

Mar 21

We cannot push ourselves away 
from this quiet, even in our sprees
of inattention, the departing passengers   
stubbing out their smokes, arrivees in tears,   
lots of cellophane, the rumpus over parking.
Wind scrapes leaves across the road,   
first flashes of snow, it is dark then
it’s really dark. Forgive me for not
writing for so long, I’ve been
right beside you, one of the vaguer
divinities blocking your way with its need   
to confess all its botched attempts at love,   
what started the whole mess. I love this place,   
its absurd use of balustrade, the chairs   
that dig into the spine, motorcyclists   
propping their drunk girlfriends in the sun,   
men playing timed chess with themselves,   
the guarantees and warnings that entice us   
to the brink of what they warn about.
But we can do no more than pass through   
these rooms and their sudden chills   
where once a plea was entered almost   
unintentionally that seemed at last   
to reveal ourselves to ourselves,
immaculate, bereft, deserving to be found.

Sleep Cycle, Dean Young 


  1. tenderflesh reblogged this from kathleenjoy and added:
    We cannot push ourselves away from this quiet, even in our sprees of inattention, the departing passengers stubbing out...
  2. kathleenjoy reblogged this from poetbabble and added:
    We cannot push ourselves away from this quiet, even in our sprees of inattention, the departing passengers stubbing out...
  3. impetuous-one reblogged this from poetbabble
  4. poetbabble reblogged this from lakequiet and added:
    We cannot push ourselves away from this quiet, even in our sprees of inattention, the departing passengers stubbing out...
  5. lakequiet reblogged this from maraschinocheri
  6. maraschinocheri posted this