The Little Review (littlereview) wrote,
The Little Review

Poem for Monday and Wheaton Model Trains

Air Envelope
By Catherine Wagner

A skylight stippled
Wet, scatted
With translucent brown maple seedwings

I'm under that

I wrote it as if it were a poem
And my handy margin
Would profit me.

The notebook margin
Lends to me
Its frugal axis, asking
Nothing, determinist
Of route, but blandly so.

"I didn't know."

Push forward
The bag of skin
Scaffolded animated
And house at the same time

The hinge we turn on
Wrap around night
Becomes day, same page
We're on it.


December thus far has been mild and lovely, and Sunday was no exception. We had a quiet morning while Adam was at Hebrew school in case he needed transportation somewhere; my father drove him home afterward, then he walked the dogs and we took him to school to set up for Blast. So we didn't have lunch till after 1 p.m., by which time we knew there would be Redskins crowds on the Beltway and there were news reports of mass arrests at Occupy DC. Rather than risk getting caught in traffic heading to the arboretum or anywhere downtown, we went to Brookside Gardens, which has its winter lights show in the evening but was nicely uncrowded in the afternoon, and the poinsettias and holiday train displays are much easier to navigate. There's even a miniature conservatory with its own miniature train show inside:


Adam had dinner with his girlfriend -- again -- so the grownups had sandwiches and macaroni without him, then we caught up on Once Upon a Time, which I am enjoying despite the necessarily cliched characterizations (at least, unlike Grimm, it doesn't have a growing female body count). Then we watched the first part of Neverland, which has some painfully cheesy visuals and some wildly uneven performances but also has Anna Friel as a pirate king and Rhys Ifans as an even more psychologically messed-up Hook than the traditional one. They're clearly trying not to make the Indians into painful stereotypes but they're also not really managing it. Maybe tomorrow.

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