Letter to the Younger Me
Hello, darling. The sky is gray
this morning, like an old wool blanket left
out in the rain. In the bookstore,
I misheard someone asking
for “the graphic novel” as them wanting “the death
of the novel” and I thought, “of course.” How are you
getting along? Lately, I keep trying
to peel myself like an apple, pare everything down, open up
like envelopes or doors. It isn’t working--
so much easier to watch
the inexorable march of digital numbers pressing forward
under the smooth surface of the clock. These minutes:
orderly little lemmings plunging
into the dark gray sea
or they’re the small enameled cars
I’d make a caravan of and push
so they tumbled
off the white wicker snow-cliff of the couch. Oh clanging
against the tiled sunroom floor. Come back,
sun on the floor, slow-moving
trapezoidal shape projected in through the window
when I had all the hours left in the world.
-- Kate Angus
