Grandma Moses, Wood Lane, 1942.
(Source: dappledwithshadow, via variationofmarge)
Kissing you
on that hard wood floor
in that open and empty
assembly room
somehow
was like lying
in the sun in
my backyard, falling asleep
there, dreaming i was lying
in the sun of
some island country - a different
place’s sun -
and waking up
at twilight
because the air around me
had turned grayish blue and colder
yet clearer, or -
easier to see through -
than earlier.
It was like a lot of other things,
too, but
this one feels right
to put in a poem.
When you wake up
from a sun-drenched nap
into a chillier outside
you must decide whether
to go inside for the evening
or to grab a sweater
and come back out.
i am so proud of and lucky to have the archive of work i have made since i was 17 years old. this one is from 2016 when i was 23.
the first last and only
big soul shaking thing we ever
did together was go to
that light installation in
a new york city apartment
drenched in pink neon we
almost seemed
right for each other
you lay with your head on a pillow
and your eyes closed i
sat at the window watching
flocks of birds
gather atop
and disperse from
the roof of another
building
next time i love someone i
want us to be those birds
not just one person
inside looking on
from a window.