The Only Order the Day Had Was Chronological Order
In the afternoon, the hour of five falls like quintuplets from the clock.
To live in the moment is a frightful thing. In all the past I never lived in the moment. I was saving those moments for now.
The future is no better place. The future is coming with the sole purpose that I might regret it.
I once loved someone who said things like, “when we’re older and you write my biography…” What a presumptuous jerk he was. But the pathetic thing was how I adored him, and how he still crosses my mind every day, at least the person he was, not the failed man.
(at dusk, while the stars sort out their sleep patterns)
Nothing nourishes suffering like nostalgia.
I don’t pretend to know anything, including the French word for hell. I don’t even know if the English word for hell is quite correct.
After feasting, mint restores coherence.
Although anyone who looks can see it, and even explain it, the daytime moon always seems to be something secret and subversive.
It is good to put an hour aside for thinking. Slow down. Behold your horses.
Weltschmerz. I wash mine down with coffee.
Sarah J. Sloat’s new chapbook Homebodies has just been published by Hyacinth Girl Press. Sarah lives in Germany, where she works in news. Her poems have appeared in Barn Owl Review, DMQ, Bateau and Fraglit, among many other places.