I’m a little late for the month of this one but the seasonality is there. This is a little fragmented but oh, this line: “People don’t know what to do/ with their hair, all their fear.” From so small to so big.


by Alex Dimitrov

A different smell of dirt.
The walk between
every appointment now quicker.
And clouds—in all their indifference—
somehow looking at you.
Aren’t you, too, unbelievable.
Aren’t you simply a you.
No doubt, as Woolf wrote
one October on Paradise Road:
the extremely insignificant position I have
in this important world. Choosing words
that won’t obscure how punishing we are.
Setting the alarm and keeping the eyes open.
Long. Into the dark. Or the wind—
suddenly matching our need
to change. The garment
with last year’s stain faded but there.
Of course it is cold now
but somewhere it’s colder.
People don’t know what to do
with their hair, all their fear.
When you see the world,
introduce yourself like a guest.
Like a drop of paint outside canvas.
A dog barking for no one to hear.