January in West Texas
Once, I preferred nights. How they arrived one tied to the next like silk scarves, knots of daylight between them. I frequented starry places. Now, I walk on parched grass. Dust lifts, swirls, and resettles. In a letter to his brother, Keats writes, Our bodies every seven years are completely fresh-material’d…’Tis an uneasy thought that in seven years the same hands cannot greet each other again. Most afternoons, I lie down, sunlight streaming through the window, inviting sleep. I follow a rustling noise, like leaves falling, or a fortuneteller turning the pages of her newspaper to the obituaries.
