I think he wears a hood, but I was never sure it was him and never really understood.
No, I am not Prufrock; nor will I ever be, but sometimes I feel like him around the eyes and hands, wrinkled with youth. I know I am a fool, truly, knowing less that the beggar and the brakeman, never hearing the singing songs sung, lonely as a prayer of holy water on a coffin, wishing I knew what anything meant at all.
Heartbeats meet where the pieces join in softened silk to fill the air with the fragrant fracture of fragile breathlessness.
26
I waited for winter’s mask to descend silent. Now, leaves gather in gutters and grass glints to grey in fretting fall. The way earth finds herself in sight when she should be snowed in shelter, deepening under dark whiteness. Dying in nakedness is nature. THE LAMPETER REVIEW - Issue 3 - May 2011