over &donewith;, the final day gone.
on the bus into town there were packs of good boston boys with their salt boston accents, going downtown to the million-strong parade for the godamned football victory. their faces painted like flags. one yelled into a phone jake? can you hear me? fercrissakes. and then the others laughed, the whole bus can hear you.
the square was deserted, cold. the bluster and freeze of the coldest day i've seen recently. knocking my knees, and numbed me.
done early, i went to pick up my photos, the ones from iceland, procrastinated all this long while to be developed and lo! midnight at noon be damned! it was not too dark as i had feared. if i had a scanner i would scan my favorites, which are of the boat wharves, and all the ropes big as arms crisscrossing up to the bows and sterns. somewhere there is a third roll, still undeveloped. more secrets to be seen from my week of no sun, of strange hours.
now here, home, skirted today and writing letters, lingering on words everywhere. on the ride home the sun was just nearing the edge of the sky, occluded by swept pieces of mackarel clouds, three broad beams sweeping up like a sacre coeur. it was light enough to see the cemetary hills, usually hidden; today spreading up very lonely behind their fences, all the angels with their arms up in the sky as if to reveal something, voila; grace, beauty, the insensible world, etcetera.
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