I am barefaced with my hair pulled back: a charcoal drawing, finger smudged and smutty, but my skin is made of putty. I am thumb prints sunk too deep. Dark hollows press beneath my eyes. (I never try to look pretty, but I pluck my eyebrows before I go to the doctor: I am worthy. I have a life.)
It shouldn't be this beautiful: the darkening trees; the line of branches scraping the sky, gold spilling over and between them; the last, round rays of evening light. (Gold crescendoes into amber; everything intensifies.)
But storm clouds gather, purple, in the distance. Evening fades and now it's night.
I see a space on the road and slip my car to fill it. I am sleek in this new darkness, one of many. I am headlights in a row of headlights pulling through the night.
It shouldn't be this beautiful: the darkening trees; the line of branches scraping the sky, gold spilling over and between them; the last, round rays of evening light. (Gold crescendoes into amber; everything intensifies.)
But storm clouds gather, purple, in the distance. Evening fades and now it's night.
I see a space on the road and slip my car to fill it. I am sleek in this new darkness, one of many. I am headlights in a row of headlights pulling through the night.
b e a u t i f u l.
ReplyDeletebtw, who inspires you as far as poetry?
I can barely put my finger to the beat of this exquisite tenderness. It is alive. This whole description is alive.
ReplyDelete