Emailed Bhanu. A question of condensation. “I am in Philadelphia,” I wrote, “and even the trees shudder in the wind more slowly here.” Sitting in a cafe as light mottles wooden surfaces, listening to a new song by a friend who left Oakland for other architectures.
“After reading the reading in New York,” I wrote, “riding the train back, I pressed my thumb into the hollow of Melissa’s palm. To see. Behind the eyes. A burst of bright dark purple. As if a cloud. Bhanu,” I asked, “What is the meaning of purple?”
The meaning of purple is that night is coming on. Light a candle. Against that brutal dusk. As Lorca did. So long ago.
A bruise. Blooming just beneath
the static present.