The morning sky is clouding up and what is that tree, dressed up in white? The fruit tree, French pear. Sulphur- yellow bees stud the forsythia canes leaning down into the transfer across the park. And trees in skimpy flower bud suggest the uses of paint thinner, so fine the net they cast upon the wind. Cross-pollination is the order of the fragrant day. That was yesterday: today is May, not April and the magnolias open their goblets up and an unseen precipitation fills them. A gray day in May.
James Schuyler - 1923-1991
Tags of songs, like salvaged buttons off vanished dresses, a date Thursday a week at eight, some guilt for a cab she not only could not afford but: pretty immoment matter greets Dorabella's mounting or are they subtracting moments. "Surely should be otherwise, should stop, be thought about, have other quality than surprise. When was I last surprised?" Now more a lilac in rain than a crocus between her office and some gin, Dorabella herself encounters numerously, a not so bad looker for a tied and dyed, a moustached nun of dubious inner life, a character actress of no talent and less means, a swami-smitten dowager needling a dull chauffeur, or a hurrying woman smoothing gloves. "What would it be like to change, sharply as a traffic light?" Dorabella makes a face at life, and hurries.