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and I cleaned the bathroom, too
Jun. 11th, 2007 01:55 amA nice lazy Sunday. The weather continues hot, though if work continues its usual air-conditioning policy I'll freeze at my desk.
I've done all the actual knitting work on that baby-jacket, and now I just need to sew it up and sew on the buttons. Gah. Have I mentioned that I hate sewing up the side seams?
I've also been rereading my Unknown Armies stuff. Wish that it was still coming out.
---
For an Old Girlfriend, Long Dead
Lying on that blanket, nights on the seventh green --
in the dry air the faint scent of gasoline,
nothing above us but the ragged moon,
nothing between but a whispered soon...
Well, such was romance in the seventies.
Watergate and Cambodia, the public lies,
made our love seem, somehow, more true.
Of the few things I wanted then, I needed you.
I remember our last arguments, my angry calls,
then the long silence, those northern falls
we drifted toward our newly manufactured lives.
Does anything else of us survive?
That day in Paris, perhaps, when you swore
our crummy hotel was all you were looking for --
each cobbled Paris street, each dry baguette,
even the worthless sous nothing you'd forget.
Outside, a block away, the endless Seine
flowed roughly, then brightly, then...
Then nothing. Nothing later went quite that far.
I remember that Spring. Those breasts. That car.
-- William Logan
I've done all the actual knitting work on that baby-jacket, and now I just need to sew it up and sew on the buttons. Gah. Have I mentioned that I hate sewing up the side seams?
I've also been rereading my Unknown Armies stuff. Wish that it was still coming out.
---
For an Old Girlfriend, Long Dead
Lying on that blanket, nights on the seventh green --
in the dry air the faint scent of gasoline,
nothing above us but the ragged moon,
nothing between but a whispered soon...
Well, such was romance in the seventies.
Watergate and Cambodia, the public lies,
made our love seem, somehow, more true.
Of the few things I wanted then, I needed you.
I remember our last arguments, my angry calls,
then the long silence, those northern falls
we drifted toward our newly manufactured lives.
Does anything else of us survive?
That day in Paris, perhaps, when you swore
our crummy hotel was all you were looking for --
each cobbled Paris street, each dry baguette,
even the worthless sous nothing you'd forget.
Outside, a block away, the endless Seine
flowed roughly, then brightly, then...
Then nothing. Nothing later went quite that far.
I remember that Spring. Those breasts. That car.
-- William Logan
