Hugo Grenville1

The Senses by Max Ritvo

Everything feels so good to me:
my wool hat,
the cocoon of dryness in my throat.

The sound of burning vegetables
is like a quiet, clean man folding sheets.

But I keep having thoughts—
this thought always holding at bay the next thought
until it sours into yet

another picture of dissatisfaction,
that loves to be thought,

another pear, ugly
as the head
of a man who is thinking.

I thought my next thought would be a vision of my suffering;
I thought I would understand the yellow lightning in a painted storm—
the crucial way it disappears
when I imagine myself flung
head-long into the painting.

Instead I have this picture of dissatisfaction,
the thought not rising, but splitting in half
on the unanswered question of lightning,

my mind
like a black glove
that you mistake for a man
in the middle of a blizzard.

The 104-Year-Old Street Artist Who Yarn-Bombed Her Town

An Introverted Writer’s Lament


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