AJ Kimmerly, July 2013

Sessions: A Black Room, to Start

 

 

she says, be here now.

 

but he keeps drifting:

where is the edge of this ocean?

 

can i get a wall to scratch?

she says, draw out your sorrow—

 

is it one-dimensional? are the roots red?

he says he found a stick

 

but cannot reach sand

 

he says he found a stick

 

but forgot to pack his hands.

he drifts deeper, wonders if

 

‘we’ is inherently polarized:

west/ east.

 

in the water, there is no direction

 

but under.

 

right brain, left mood:

 

all of it, like all of we, dysphotic.

 

sorrow,

 

he winces,

 

is a wet gauze—

 

a man’s skin, chilled

 

by photons (closeness, a woman’s tepid

 

touch).  she says

 

the room’s too warm;

 

turn on the light.

Promote. Poetry.
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