Third night. Hospital. August.

Above the gridded night’s skyline, a city refuses rising. It splays, lamp-posts flickering into the horizon, sightless, bending in the distance. I can hear the slap and creak of horse-drawn buggies on the mudded main-streets, churning through time. That could be real, removed from the four high-rises; illuminated, lit where the peaks begin to thin – monuments folded at the apex again in black satin: a starless sky. For someone looking seven stories up, maybe the aqueous flow of television light floods my form, a silhouette standing at the window  –  these frail, stooped shoulders made mountains.

12 thoughts on “Third night. Hospital. August.

  1. thanks for the comment on my poem. didn’t even realize there was rhyme in there … thanks! Also, as far as this piece goes, I love the melancholy undertones with the greyized emotions in your imagery. lulling. I enjoyed this very much.

  2. I’ve been thinking about it lately, who you’re writing reminds me off, and I’ve come to the conclusion that it’s Paul Auster. I’m talking about early Auster understands, not his later stuff. I don’t mean that you write like him, I just mean that you evoke atmosphere in a similar way, there’s this ‘edge’ to it, caught in the corner of your eye…

    1. “there’s this ‘edge’ to it, caught in the corner of your eye…” That may just be the most interesting way anyone has ever described something I’ve done. And I’m a little jealous I didn’t come up with that metaphor…

      Thank you

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