…in this great bleakness one must wonder what summer tastes like, how it feels to have wind on ones skin, sun touching down to the bones. I find I’m lonely for what doesn’t exist here— the soft flow of summer.
Here, is a great bleakness. Sunrise with her feral light wandering over the thin edge of winter; not one flower does she touch. Not a blade of green or a faint whisper of lilac or apple or rose or even budding pine or juniper, only the faded smell of exhaust and stale snow, the mould zig-zagging hungrily along, mazing my mind.
This lichenous hunger is screaming for a little sap, a little sweetness.
Spring, in all its drear pushed its baldness from the deep apex of winter, tearing it apart. The shreds are so bleak—& nothing blooms & nothing dreams & nothing folds open & nothing, nothing, nothing. This is the north. We don’t do ‘Spring has Sprung’ here. We do Drear, the longest season of all.
…the dirt rising as the sweepers move in. Even the boulevards are swept with great machines whirring & combing the six months of agony from them. All swept into great mounds of filth & debris… the sky becomes a storm of decay & refuse. I feel the contagion moving down into my chest—now I know why.