(Poem #302 on new numbering scheme)
The fading sun made aimless grasps against the window such that glass became purple illumination without shape. I bent over my book with my neck tensed because the tiny lamp's lighted circle denied me its narrow landscape.
This is not a quatrain. I don’t know what it is – I guess it’s a sestet, and it’s got some kind of metrical thing going on. But I think I’m not going to weld myself to a specific form, for now. I thus will just call them poems, and we’ll see what happens if I make one every day. I had been intending to change over to some continuing series of poems that were thematically (as opposed to structurally) unified, when I got to around 100 quatrains, but I didn’t. So now I am dropping the quatrains, but I still don’t have a theme worked out. So I’ll just post whatever, I guess, for now. Or forever.