After the Thunderstorm

I like to think of William Turner mixing paint and I like thinking about the strips of felt in Beethoven’s pianos. It’s the small things, the fallen feather, the overturned teacup in a railway dining car—these are central to whatever it is we mean by the “inner life.” I like ice cold water in a wooden Finnish cup.

And perhaps because I’m blind I see houses moving sideways in rain though I’m assured nothing of the kind has happened. But the visually impaired have their optical illusions and I won’t back down. My neighbor’s house moved five feet to the left during last night’s thunderstorm. By morning it’s shifted back.

And while that house is moving the dead have a party. Because I live in a “settled” neighborhood each house has its own dead. So they have a little get together.

Of course when they’re gone they’ve left no note, not a shred of evidence. I close my eyes. Open them. Take a random walk in the wet streets.

The Republic is failing.

Everywhere is an alien city.

Auden, I need you…

Author: skuusisto

Poet, Essayist, Blogger, Journalist, Memoirist, Disability Rights Advocate, Public Speaker, Professor, Syracuse University

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