It's been raining for a full 24 hours, which is unusual for Toronto and reminds me how my brain used to feel in Dublin in winter, that low ceiling of sky just a stretched arm away. And I've grown unused to the weight of it and the novelty of rain fades fast now. I want it all to be wrung dry quickly, which it will...
And this clear night poem by Charles Wright looks different than my outside right now, but feels the same. I also feel caught up in the gears this week and I want to be pulled out. I feel stuck in my apartment, in my cubicle, on the subway, in the coffee shop line-up. I read words and feel like the calling is everybody else's and not mine. And I'm craving a singularity that my muddy world isn't offering me.
Clear night, thumb-top of a moon, a back-lit sky.
Moon-fingers lay down their same routine
On the side deck and the threshold, the white keys and the black keys.
Bird hush and bird song. A cassia flower falls.
I want to be bruised by God.
I want to be strung up in a strong light and singled out.
I want to be stretched, like music wrung from a dropped seed.
I want to be entered and picked clean.
And the wind says “What?” to me.
And the castor beans, with their little earrings of death, say “What?” to me.
And the stars start out on their cold slide through the dark.
And the gears notch and the engines wheel.