Bad Times
Very late, by the time Venus appears above the emerging outline of the eastern mountains, the still, cool air has taken on a scent of marshlands and a hint of fog. Waking, I find this surprise. I might have dreamed it while I lay fevered indoors, driven at last by exhaustion to sleep even through the stabbing of my head which grew worse as the medication wore off.
Earlier, I had intended to water the lawn as, when walking across it to get a better view of the waxing moon, I had heard it crunch under my feet as it does when frozen. The similarity was startling. I wanted to deprive summer of its disturbing imitation of winter by saturating the dessicated grass. Distracted, I forgot. Now I see the brown lawn by morning light, and that unexpected scent is in the air. Everything is askew these days, and my hammered head can't take it in. Extremes and dislocations are misaligning the world and my perceptions of it. The time is a weaving of confusions.
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Earlier, I had intended to water the lawn as, when walking across it to get a better view of the waxing moon, I had heard it crunch under my feet as it does when frozen. The similarity was startling. I wanted to deprive summer of its disturbing imitation of winter by saturating the dessicated grass. Distracted, I forgot. Now I see the brown lawn by morning light, and that unexpected scent is in the air. Everything is askew these days, and my hammered head can't take it in. Extremes and dislocations are misaligning the world and my perceptions of it. The time is a weaving of confusions.
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