I cannot, for the life of me, seem to condense time Loss adheres to us now and regret is a lingering tumor, and it always tastes like black costa rican for the first time, and turbinado on my tongue- but how can we change this? And look at the artists, now, with their knowing; brush strokes, articulation, rubato, oil, flour. Humid air sharpens what this is and we curve, conveniently, this way. Seasons will brown out and shrivel up and evaporate, but I think this will stay remembering the time when we realized it- knowing happiness and contentment like the cool fingers of thunderstorms softly sustained us. I remember how we taxed flesh and rubbed away life; when spring invaded winter early and fall was cut short -that un-rest- when it doesn't rain nearly enough and that ill, sickening smell sets in. We are stuck here. Frustration cannot touch- understand the fingerprints that stick to coffee tables.
Caroline Seagle's Questions:
1.) Are the transitions smooth?
2.) I had thought about a title but couldn't find one that would fit appropriately. I feel like the poem is kind of delicate- I don't want to set the tone off-balance by choosing the wrong word or phrase...Any suggestions?
3.) Honestly, is the poem overly dense?
4.) Do the seasons tie in well with each other? Does this idea work to convey the deeper human meanings of the poem?
Thank you much.