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It isn’t about boredom. We have names
for birds, but don’t know what to call
the brown ones flitting by the sill
except here. Even the sky is not so simple. The hot
halo around cumulus
a difficult thing to talk about.
Sunlight is not so troubling, but for what
it reveals, and darkness, well,
no one wants to shut their eyes for too long.
Some people think watching others
sleep is romantic and heartfelt,
but remember this is what
corpses look like. To die in sleep is terrifying
for those who try to wake you. But for the sleeper
the dream will end as it always has, except
for the waking part, the panted breathing
in a painted room. And so,
I tell her I love her, and she
tells me she loves me too.
This is how we say goodnight.
Careful breezes swell the curtains
when we leave the windows open,
the tumble of air says this is season, this is.
The days are long, and we are tired
of them. We are sleeping, and we are
waking, and we are sitting. Today, I wanted
to write an ode
to October because, well, Keats.
Despite the calendar, the leaves are so surprising.
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In her new book, Danish poet Olga Ravn writes with open love, pity, and compassion for her strange yet familiar creations.
Draconian individual punishment distracts from systemic change and reinforces the cruelest and most racist system of incarceration on the planet.
Our well-being depends on a better understanding of how the logic of labor has twisted our relationship with pleasure.