To begin this two-week riff I post the poem in its entirety, without a photo.
MILK GLASS by Rae Gouirand
At the start of September everything clouds over,
screens breathe rain & the thrum
of ozone rising from pelted asphalt. Everything’s
got a little dust on it; everything old
newly belongs. What gets me about love is how
it never cleanly divides us
separate from the rest. Glass is a liquid—look
it up. Even the vintage stuff you like
to drink from when folks show unannounced
fastens around: hand form. Like
a cloud. Like a cloud that appears. We get
used to hard edges on our lips.
MILK GLASS by Rae Gouirand
At the start of September everything clouds over,
screens breathe rain & the thrum
of ozone rising from pelted asphalt. Everything’s
got a little dust on it; everything old
newly belongs. What gets me about love is how
it never cleanly divides us
separate from the rest. Glass is a liquid—look
it up. Even the vintage stuff you like
to drink from when folks show unannounced
fastens around: hand form. Like
a cloud. Like a cloud that appears. We get
used to hard edges on our lips.
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