Sunday Evening Blues

Tinkle of ice in lowball glasses. Perfume of cigarette smoke. Murmur of voices, drifting in from the screened porch — familiar cadence.


Darkness comes on and on, tired and tattered.


The light here leaves you / lonely, fading / as does the dusk / that takes too long / to arrive.¹


Stutter and drone of cicadas. Big rigs braking. Revving, REVVING, and passing through. A shout from somewhere. What?



Screen Shot 2016-08-15 at 9.23.18 AM
© Suzanna West


Walt Disney, abandoned homework, dread of the morning to come.


My grandmother, so warmhearted. So proud of her own. Her children (sad-eyed, sighing inwardly) around her, her grandchildren sprawled in front of a television — not oblivious to it, to the way the motes of a brittle past swirl and descend. Not unmindful, no — but resigned.





what can abide as we go

following those

who have forgotten

what is remembered altogether

eyes but not the seeing

often we did not know

that we were happy

even when we were not

how could we have told

at no distance²




¹ Kevin Young, excerpt from “Book of Hours” (2007)

² W. S. Merwin, excerpt from “Traces” (2005)

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