After the winter, grieving and dull,
I flourished here all spring. Sweet light
began to fill my chest. I pulled up
a chair. Sat for hours in front of the sea.
and the sound of a bell. I wanted
everything behind me. I even wanted
to become inhuman. And I did that.
I know I did. (She’ll back me up on this.)
I remember her the morning I closed the lid
on memory and turned the handle.
out here, sea. Only you and I know.
At night, clouds form in front of the moon.
By morning they’re gone. And that sweet light
I spoke of? That’s gone too.
Raymond Carver
adam
The magnetism that this dark emotion — teetering between rueful and dead, and that is too frank to quite be called regret, or even bitterness — holds for you is a constant source of wonder, and concern …
Boy that man could write.