If this is all just a series of metaphors
then let me be Prynne’s white lines
laid out on the fresh snow, waiting
for sweet, broken sleep to fall on me.
But that’s too obvious, and so is
reading the planet’s radius [smaller
than] every other day until I find
some space in which I can settle.
I guess that’s inspiration, don’t you
think? Obsession and recreation,
the maybe your own voice somewhere
among the wildflowers and metaphors.
– Aaron Kent
Wait – which Prynne? Hester or Jeremy Halvard? I wonder how long
we can go without googling? And I wonder about white lines in snow?
Redundancy eludes me even in metaphor so let me stop answering
your questions with more questions. Let me get to the heart of things.
Don’t lie down, waiting for sleep in snow. You’ll freeze and the chill
will start inside. The coldness of hearts – as cold as any red letter
embroidered as violence – these are what led us here, at this moment,
when the earth herself is ready to burn or freeze us away. I know
I’m rambling but I’m worried about you. You’re drinking and there’s snow
and these Great Lakes are unforgiving. Fear of freezing has made my lines
so long they’re risking hypothermia. Last night, I dreamt I was forced to wear
my own scarlet letter but I couldn’t tell if I was in a book or an adaptation
staring Gary Oldman. Is this who I am? A loose interpretation of the classics?
Is this the true heart of the matter? I want to lie down among wildflowers
but I know they’d forget me as soon as I stood up. Snow melts, grass returns
to its quest for sun, and I – I go on, trying to leave behind more than a headstone.
– Anthony Frame