which backs slowly into darkness.
Crows fly home, high for them. They
become wrinkled, animated black lines.
So much is wrong out there--
the city, the nation, the world.
One feels ashamed, obligated, compelled,
and weary. This evening I give in
greedily to privilege, sit outside with
headphones on, listening to Ellington
indigos, "Solitude," "Prelude to a Kiss,"
"Mood Indigo," a cover of "Autumn Leaves."
In my heaven, Duke is musical director.
September air, influenced by Puget Sound,
mixes with dimming light sublimely. Yes,
I said "sublimely." Insufferable.
I want for nothing except more commitment
to change some bad things.
How disgusting to write about oneself
at a time like this.
hans ostrom 2015