February 08, 2006
The hidden corner
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wait five minutes
fork pierces through soft white flesh
blood red spills of lip-ripened tomatoes
she understands the shape of words
since three weeks ago
two soups and what?
wait five.
wait ten
we have the soup or salad
glimmer of silver under grease
cigarette pierces between sun-shadowed kisses
noise too loud so we speak by hands
dreams of sleep and red wine smiles
wait ten more
until then.
Posted by sniffles at 11:25 PM | Comments (0)
The days have been uncharacteristically warm. So everyone says. For the middle of winter, one would have expected temperatures of -20s, -30s of Montreal, but lately, we hover around zero. Perhaps every winter has been a little strange, but our memories of winters are always more hazy than we realise — perhaps we remember best the days of pervading cold, the desolate snow greyed by dust and traffic and street life, and happy occasions of winter sports. We remember coats and gloves and mittens and hats and shivering despite our species' ingenuity at making the harshest surroundings habitable. Extreme days are much easier to remember than mediocare days. However, the great respite, as always, lies in having the occasion to complain ...
I know I have been quiet of late, and for that I apologise. Thank you to the thoughtful few who have written to see if I've been alright. I seem to be writing more offline than online, paying more attention to the living breathing world and projects within that realm than this digital domain.
There will be a more consistent return at some point, one feels it in the air, but all fruitful thoughts go through a period of gestation; some day soon, there will be rebirth.
Posted by sniffles at 10:53 PM | Comments (1)