Tomorrow will be my last day in Cambridge.
I am at my desk analyzing the eminent question,
Why didn’t Guinevere ride away with Lancelot?
A question more urgent for me at 8:54 tonight than for mankind.
I set the mood.
Moved the yellow bedside lamp to my desk,
Or to the shelf rather, that is as far as the plug would reach.
I like it better than the ceiling light,
Maybe because it glows like candlelight
Maybe I like candlelight because things feel old here.
My window is open to the third notch.
There are six notches. A bird flew into it the last time I opened it all six.
Outside was gray today and I can still tell.
I turned on Vivaldi on the floor behind me and
Made a single cup of raspberry tea with hot sink water.
It’s sitting on its saucer to my right. But raspberry tastes like daytime.
Oh well. Their picking some sting instruments behind me, I think a mandolin.
The tea bag drizzled on Malory. Page 77 is pink.
My courage angel stands bow-chested, arms spread, closer to the window than me.
A picture of my sister below her. I’ll see her soon.
The room is yellow but the breeze feels blue.
It is like when you drop an ice cube into warm tea
and the temperature swirls in your mouth like Van Gogh’s Night Sky clouds.
Maybe we only do that in the South.
My tea is fading in temperature and measurement,
Six weeks and I still haven’t figured out the metric system.
The chandelier in the Trinity College chapel is on,
The tall arched windows are lit up.
I wonder if anyone can see my window from there too.
I wonder if anyone can hear my music from the street.
I wonder if Guinevere would have like raspberry tea and electric lamps.
I hope the weather is good tomorrow.
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