Bulfinch’s The Age of Fable

The days have no numbers.
Neither thread nor color —
air too intimate, trespassing
the pores, tiring houseplants.

The mother reads in her chair,
mouthing half-broken words,
the grandfather also in his chair
with a picture book
of divinities, all gold,
resplendent goddesses.

Television blaring,
no hour lifted from the hands,
but suddenly, you’re doing the same thing
you’ve been doing, except
everyone has gone to bed.

The mind not here but there,
not there really —
floating on itself,
buoyant as a cork inside
its bottle, the kitchen tinted.

No preparation, no longing.
The day so vast it could
turn into anything,
or nothing.

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