The Honeymoon is Over…
It took me a long moment to realize I sounded more like the curly cursive of a Playboy centerfold than an actual human, let alone, a woman, a–dare I say it? (only with half a tongue in my cheek…)–scholar. “But, yes,” I said to her. “I mean, really good poems and good dinners and long walks and the kinds of sunsets after big storms.” It was hopeless. I was bumbling, digging myself further and further with some pearl-encrusted shovel.
But now this again: this world. This red bird, this can of nuts, these papers and these walls, these books and these pens, this waiting for this sun (the one that’s blocked by the buildings) to set, for love to come home, for water to boil, for the water that has boiled to be poured into this blue pitcher.
I mean, of course, I want to be waking up to a rainbow in the morning and lapping honey off the moon tonight, but right now, this tapping of these keys, this is what I’ve got, and right now, it is exactly what I need.