The past was fun, wasn’t it? – by Aaron Prestrud

 In the blinding moon

I put on my socks

 

The fiery morning awakes

Grey and white

 

Dear Duncan,

Get your head out of your ass



Asheville is a poor parent

 

***

 

The split is painful,

though the blind cannot feel

 

A flurry of red escapes South

the cardinal joins his cousins

 

The banshee sun

screams overhead

till bloody sunset

 

The rose blushes

A beautiful wound

 

***

 

Down past Cullowhee

We ride the silent rocket

 

Where do the meteors lead?

Follow them through

 

vast crowded pines

On a carpet of needles

 

Mid-January

And the forest is asleep

 

The winter is long.

Travel slowly

 

***

 

The polo player was

hit in the face

He sewed it up

with a vet’s needle

 

its after midnight again

and the thoughts

course through like heroin

 

These towns are time capsules

 

We kissed

and I passed out

with the light still on.

 

***

 

Lilacs shelter worms on the soggy driveway

from the downspout’s pounding trickle

 

As I get the rain-soaked paper

Grandpa slippers squeak on hardwood

 

Sunday comics hanging

over chairs to dry

 

Slats of yellow light shine

through egg yolk pink fog

 

Wake up, Alex

Its 9 o’clock

 

Everything is better in the morning