my partner's working late this week. two suppers i need to figure out for myself. i started a slow cooker of vegetarian chili this morning. have a pot of rice ready to cook at lunch. this always makes me at least six meals. yeah, i think i'm set.
when the weather turns like this, i always find myself returning to a certain kind of poet. late ws merwin, that sort of feel. or, this, by don domanski:
it has snowed a lot since you were last here
the synogogue and the abattoir are covered in snow
the ships docked at the pier are white
the rapid pulse of the sailors can be heard at night
even this far inland
(like the snapping of dry twigs
in their arms and legs)
I'm not practical enough to live much longer
only a dozen more lifetimes or so
and then the freedom of insects again
the peace of being a fly for a thousand years
the window is open and it's cold in my room
but it's almost daylight and I'm listening
for the coal-train through the snow
this world separates us
with a single ache
with a button with a glassblade
it takes so little effort
to keep us apart
the neighbour's lights have just come on
now they're removing the dry leaves and earwigs
from inside their mouths
it's the wind that shapes their lives
that fills the morning glass
with sugar and water
it's the wind that allows them to live
like birds on wires
pigeons that startle each other over breakfast
I can hear the train
although it's still miles away
soon I'll be able to sleep
soon I'll be able to put up my feet
to tie up my wrists and ankles
and pull the small black hood down over my heart