You draw a line as if the why is adrift
in a soon-to-be-predicted snowstorm
when incomplete sentences flurry
and you, jacketed against the cold,
attempt a semblance of sanity
while talking heads feel compelled to cosplay . . .
The moment-to-moment touch and go diminishes . . .
especially now with crumpled scripts
cluttering the gazebo
where an Anthony Hopkins' lookalike
walks you through the proof with:
Let X equal the cold . . .
In real life, it’s not that simple . . .
In real life, it takes a long time to break the ice . . .
the entire ordeal offputting . . .
You worry tragedians . . .
You confirm the faces comprising your past selves
which your therapist, confusingly, demurs . . .
Yet, a brisk walk awaits . . . so you leave, quoting Woolf:
If a writer were free, there would be no plot . . .
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| Antonio Palmerini |
