Jason Bentsman
Sara
Sunlight.
Her face was narrow.
The luminescent green sea.
Her elegant neck and slight fingers.
Silver jewelry.
To grow up when it was fashionable to be young.
Mistakes and great happiness conquered the world.
This is the impression twisted.
She smiled and talked and took careful inhalations of another
cigarette.
Jazz wafts
through the darkness
of the lake ...
past hunched trees
and grass
like clumped rice,
tissue-paper clover,
past glazed sand,
and gravel
in the road,
forgotten boulders,
past street lamps
and their pale
amber glow.
On a boulder
sits a bottle.
It asks for nothing,
gives nothing in return.
The blank hum of crickets.
“It so happens I am sick of being a man ...”
I leave the bottle
and walk on,
into the darkness ...
Page(s) 59-60
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- Second Aeon
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- Shearsman
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