©2019 Marie Deschênes

Semi-retired dancer now living in New York

French poet and snob, with vaguely misanthropic moods yet, to her great despair, an undying hope

in what tomorrow may bring. 

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In the poet's shoes - 3 - Christensen

Updated: Jan 20

The long grey field is distinguishable from the long grey sky only by a shade. The shade has a number. The woman is sitting in front of the window, at the desk, looking at the field. She knows every detail of its uneventful horizontal plane. How, when it rains, the field remains grey. How, when it's nighttime, the field remains the field. How, when it's windy, the field remains flat. She sits there every day. Every day she writes down the number of the shade of grey of the field, and omits that of the sky. It's always the same number, but somehow it's not. It's not because she wrote it today. And tomorrow she will write it again, so it will be a different identical number. That's how she will know it's not the same day. That's how she will know she is the same woman, different than yesterday. That's how she will know she, like the earth, is not still. Though no one notices it, she, and the earth, move everyday a little forward, if in circle.