Apologetics.

Morning
I’m sorry. But—
the world was not on fire.
The light was simply the
sun mounting the sky, and
the day shattering open like
a broken glass on the tile floor.
Somehow—that would always be a
disappointment.

Summer
The delicate repulsion of
unforgotten memories and
incubated language.

It tastes like sordid summer
heat, hangs like a damp rag—
or composting grass.

Still—I’m not sorry to remember.

-Maria Vermeer