Wet;

steaming smells of broken firecrackers;

Sour from burnt-out fuses.

A little lonely

where the street winds out like a great black bed with no end in sight.

(only, no sleep to be discovered, not here)

My nose crinkles in marginal distaste

(reminds me of uselessness; I live those days still)

And the flavor of this retrospect is stronger than I would have liked.

Quiet.

Everyone’s at home, worn out

After these big explosions.

(empty declarations)

I don’t know why I’m walking here,

Alone in this early morning fog.

It’s a simple step I take, but the direction is unclear;

And I’m dreaming madly,

Till my eyes grow dizzy

And the haze settles stronger than it really is.

(The optometrist chided me for my failing eyesight

But I think my brain’s the problem here.)

I’m walking too blindly to notice the furious roses growing by the roadside

Strong in their October fragrance,

Or to marvel at the way the grass has tufted around the white picket fence, wispy-tendril

escaping.

My thoughts are too strangled to realize

That the smell of the after-rain mixed

with this special bitterness

is really a beautiful smell.

I’m not kind enough to realize this,

After all.

---

maybe I just have to appreciate the little things, again.