This is the time
that cannot decide,

a penumbra of seasons
where everything hovers

between either and or,
string lights and marigolds,

and no one bothers
to enunciate correctly.

I am flustered, inarticulate,
prone to dumb conceits;

I don’t know what I am,
or where displaced love resides.

I only know that it is raining,
and that you are gone.


Selected byRaymond Huffman
Image credit:Raymond Huffman

Hugh does not prefer to talk about himself in the third person, but if he did, he'd tell you he's in a self-imposed exile on the east coast of the USA, but still loves his former home in the Sonoran Desert. He is the author of Odd Numbers And Evensongs and Auditions For The Afterlife.