Monday, December 20, 2010

Rain Whipping Against the Glass

And you? “You”? Waiting to experience a moment
That has no precedent. The wish to be a child,
Or the wish to be outside of time,
The craving, that is, for a kind of death
In which one stays somehow alert...
-Charles Baxter




the horizon disappears into the clouds
this old city is sleeping with a sickness
burning its veins, swelling boils on the streets
salt collecting between the stones

the sky is suffocating,
bone crunching
Assaulting

And there is not relief in the water breaking with contact
Like a virus it collects
in its truest form there is no light in liquid