Why the low mood,
the picking at food?
Maybe it's the weather.
Maybe it's hormones.
Explanation's cheap
but sometimes hits the mark.
I am the target
of mysterious arrows
I myself let sling.
O that's your fantasy
of omnipotence.
You make everything
your thing.
All day I stayed in bed.
It seemed someone else
must have been alive
have done what I did.
Failed to do
what I failed to.
It's still in my head
those things I did
and said and cared for
doing but it's all gone
white like green hills
in certain light
as Dante says the hillsides
can go white
in the middle of a new life.
Even Those
Even the places
the sun doesn't reach
in the deepest woods
are hot. Even the places
that never dry—the mosses
creeping everywhere
a damp carpet underfoot—
are dry. Even the quietest
places you've never been
are disquieted by your cry.
Even those places.
MAUREEN MCLANE
This Blue
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