poems & photos
Suddenly I understand
that all the doors
(of possibility)
are on the inside
Answers that can be
forged only in silence
Behind one: the delicate
archive of this current path,
preserved behind glass
Behind another: overgrown
dreams, like a garden full
of weeds
And behind yet another:
true feelings
How quickly the truth
unravels within us
(if we let it)
Once again,
in the height of summer
mountains shrink behind
curtains of haze
conjuring the familiar dread
of winter’s opaque skies
But it’s different, ominous
the way the sky brims
milk-white
replacing the meticulous
clear blue of
Seattle summer sky
Collectively we wonder,
the air feeling thicker
than usual, if this is
our new normal
The dim sun pressing
neon rays through
layers and layers
of crispy trees,
houses, anything
flammable
The hallucinator sees
the contents of their mind
spread out before them,
like dusty old knickknacks
brought up from the basement
and strewn out in the front yard.
Their minds become a
kaleidoscope.
They look at their life
and see themselves
as a miracle.
An accidental poem by this article in The Atlantic.
It is a wonder that my eyes
may see the city from such
varied perches, day to day:
By bus: elevated so that
I may gaze indulgently
into wet, dirt-caked
cavities of construction sites
hidden when I am
By bike: so that the flawed
contours of road, frenzied
traffic patterns spill soft
city breath on my cheeks,
ever still when I am
By foot: so that I may watch,
observe, stop at the apex of the
Walnut Street Bridge and see
(for the first time) clumps of
bright clothing, remnants
of bicycles, water bottles
sticking to the concrete
embankment below.
But the argument
carries on, goes around
corners, crosses the
road, turns back on
itself, and
eventually ends up
somewhere neither
of us has ever been
before–at least,
not sober, and not
during daylight hours.
An accidental poem by Nick Hornby via High Fidelity.
fog up the windows 