Saturday, July 11, 2009

saturday morning sketches

eyes like drops of sapphire paint in a bucket of white, liquid marbles, december day clear, the kindness of a young school teacher, alive with the road ahead, gated lashes, a gentle arch of brow plucked, punctuating the cheek, rising, highlights drawn in sun upon morning dunes of snow

she tilts her head. parts her lips. a touch of tongue silent as the lesson loud, bells of school ringing in the mind, of old wooden desks squawking and the perfume of fresh chalk sacrificed, of large clocks with black hands and white faces and ceiling fans twirling slow, casting lazy humid shadows, of buttoned blouses and pleated skirts and the easy movements of languid afternoons, of heels metronoming the hall beyond frosted doors and still those lips, two curves to the well beyond time where hours become minutes and women become memories

____________


she said goodbye like the wind, like a child, like an old person who couldn't be bothered with sentiment, afraid of betraying the heart with the eye in the gloaming of relationship, of the forked path, of the tragedy of geography, of a mother watching her son slip away

6 comments:

Trée said...

about to head back to Tennessee. thought I'd post these sketches, which is what I call incomplete, unfinished, aimless wordplay, just throwing some paint against the canvas

Leslie Morgan said...

Well, that paint landed in a most beautiful configuration. Be safe.

S. said...

"two curves to the well beyond time where hours become minutes and women become memories..."

The more I read this one line, the more it hurts to read...

Outstanding...

Trée said...

S, the theme of memory and the line between what is real and what is only imagined has forever beguiled me. And then I wonder too, if memory is not more desired, the more delicious fruit of existence, the forever changing recreations of acts given life in the breathing of our minds, the ebb and flow of neurons inhaling and exhaling.

Autumn said...

I have read this piece at least two dozen times and each time I reach the end, breathless with the exquisite detail, confounded as to how one could possibly put into other words, own words, the beauty of yours.

Trée said...

All I can do is sigh because I came very, very close to never posting these sketches. As I've said many times, I'm blind, for better or worse, to my own writing. The patrons may rave about my dishes, but to me, the cook, it all tastes the same, and I long to eat from another's hand.