Hermit hoar, in solemn cell,
Wearing out life’s evening gray;
Smite thy bosom, sage, and tell,
Where is bliss, and which the way?
Thus I spake; and speaking sigh’d;
Scarce repress’d the starting tear;—
When the smiling sage reply’d—
Come, my lad, and drink some beer.
“All the glasses break, one by one. The delicate champagne, short-stemmed and shallow bowled, glowing pink even on their own. The same expensive cheese from up the street, unwrapped onto half-washed, wooden boards. Plates of olives, and bowls of bread. Three bedroom doors hung open. Myriad ashtrays or objects ashed in. And the tree in the garden below that swung in full bloom at the height of spring, uncrushable, filling the windows, reminding me of itself as I lay on any of the couches. Catalogue of what.”
Alyssa Morhardt-Goldstein | Nympholepsy