Stormy Night’s Crossword | one frame
they exceed and extend, lifting courses off of my page.
I could spend a hundred days completing a hundred crossword puzzles, neglecting the hundred preoccupations of my life. Wicker chair and white wine; reddened berries on their verdant vines, and my pants rolled up to the knee. Sun on the stone that seats me.
Monet Toulouse Violets Clandestine.
Hand dipped in the birdbath, swift through the wet blue air beneath, thought it was empty and dry. Scribbling my hour in its embracing purgatory. A little swallow.
The puzzles are people, written off, one by one. They ask, and I answer; Latin Kahlo Pomegranate Vespa; delivering from between the acts of the mind.
They exceed and extend, lifting courses off of my page. Animating and acting for their valuation, they drink and plunge through the pool at my feet, as hastiness tracks my pencil and I scavenge for the day which recedes into night.