THE SELF IN SEARCH OF THE SUBLIME
By Gail Mazur
I could have just closed the windows when the tidal breeze flapped the shades, I
could have gone on working, but those blue shades were so lively, I could have, but I was hoarding up something, my mind a small storage bin of torpor. If I’d even clapped, my keyboard’s untapped wordage might have erupted into a thesaural something I could have played at, but my hands weren’t ready, they fidgeted by my sides, nervish and ligamenty, their opposable thumbs too twiddly to come to nothing. It’s summer, delicious fruition in the air, the screen door open to a seemly ripeness. I could have stretched my spine a little, shimmied some, twirled a hand in a nice flourish Musty Chiffon showed me at Vixen last night, witty Musty trilling, Honey, why let it hang there doin’ nothing when it could be doin’ something pretty?
Copyright © 2015 by Gail Mazur.