It rained today, or maybe it didn’t.
The pale light settled on smooth, flat surfaces,
touching and not touching,
becoming and not becoming,
its existence producing a flurry
of affirmations and negations
until I question whether it is me or another
who experiences life in this fashion.
Have I awoken to conceptualization?
Temperamental green faded into the gray,
nature held no avarice, nor joy
and the moss and loam held gloom
like a candle in a cripple’s hand
walking creaking stairs in an abandoned house
where cobwebs clog the shadows.
Only the smell makes sense.
Who knew trees bend the way
our houses say they do.
Feeling the damp wool of a sweater in the rain
I know of mold and mildew,
have seen bad bread, sniffed sour milk.
I know the horror and diminution of my days
as night’s chill invades balding skin
one square inch at a time.