William Hazel Writes
Books. Blogs. Travelogues.

these waning days with a year nearing end weary with search for where new energies can begin and the constant calloused tending of the aging perimeter fences needing mend I wrote too many letters to the unliving drank a little too much cheap wine and kept forgetting to think of it all as inexpensive though my accumulations have been dutifully recorded by my many apps except for what mattered like those times I awoke in the stillness of the still dark everything silent and pur

Medium blue suit. Black mock turtle. Hair died blacker. Dude’s sitting beside begging me to be frozen in time. His seems about ’79. I’ve got co-workers who stopped around ’85. Our 21 st  Century is already a quarter past, but it’s hard to see sometimes. The woman door gliding in the classy slacks and fitted blouse. Accenting scarf. Very Katherine Hepburn. Circa ’37. And she’s young. Dressing old works with youth. Dressing young works less with old. I’ll keep that in the back

They call it an hour gained but it all feels irretrievably lost. The Moon near full took precedence. Bluing no evidence there had ever been a summer.   The Dark Hour is the beginning of Winter in my mind. Calendric precision aside, the reversal of time turns my season cold from warm. The jet lag first week of a morning brain dawning in confused ache. The evening commute burned into a night grind of near midnight feel filled with head-on headlights refraction.   October ghosts