Fragments, vol. xx (a poem)

Yesterday. Listening to The Art of Noise and being unsuccessful at writing more than fragments…

I am visiting the end of a century
at the start of a decade
thinking about beginnings and endings—
some already come and gone
others pending—
but coming to no conclusions

The familiarity of my living room
is entirely conditional—
when I open my eyes at night
alien shapes remind me
that where I am
is where I have chosen to be

The morning chill
is indistinguishable
from the crisp evening air
formal and aloof
but for the coat of diffused light and grey
draped over one shoulder

I remember moments in love
and some of the promises I made
but could not keep
and wonder if maybe
that’s because they have
no fixed address

(14 January 2020—posted January 15)



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