15 May, 2008

guess who was reading Woolf today?

Riding the bus home from work.

The sky is feathered and folded, periwinkle or almost lavender, no sun in sight but you can sense it pulsing in places. My body is tired but my mind is alert, supple, and I am thinking of the lines of a face and why the poor make me feel uncomfortable. We rumble and whistle down the interstate and seem to be moving much faster than we are. The throbbing city pulls all of these little cars to its center on roads like veins. A black bird flies from the grass to a tree.

The clouds are white on blue and in some places blue on white. To be deep in thought and at peace. The hammer clicks in place. Anxiety sinks down at the end of the day and the rest of life is nothing but a pale canvas flecked with rain.

A woman waits at a bus stop with her jacket hanging on her head, threading the handle of her purse through her worried thumbs.

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