Sonnet: Night Letter
Annette closed out her formal career by singing
her AIDS Madrigals in recital, leaving the two
of us feeling like we were beggars or lepers out
of the Bible. Carolina mornings, I had noticed,
separate print text from hypertext in more efficient
ways than do others, with the risk of maximum
return—fire in the air, fire in one’s shirtsleeves.
Through the threatening dusk, we intercut short
pieces with scraps of monologue, as projected
images, high on the wall, showed scenes of quiet
desperation, porch-sitters passing paper fans back
and forth in the gathering dark, the others jogging
off to work like everyone else. Water would be nice,
but, waving metaphors around, he signaled his distress.
Hal
Halvard Johnson
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