When I have writers block, the best remedy is to keep pounding out words, even if the bulk is pure doggerel. The second best cure is to capitulate to the amateur poet inside me. I know I've been promising all these essays, but for now, here's an all-encompassing poem about, well, Yale.
Bella Villa
We stripped on a warm day,
saw faces: yellow, tan, small noses
and slight frames, hipsters in
converse and cotton. A sherry, a ben.
We walked toeing crowns,
hometown and major,
steps and a swipe on a broken
couch, an empty container.
We caught wax dinners,
let napkins fold our facades, plates
criss-crossed with thin dry green beans.
They were all so promising.
We found a lighthouse streaming
purple light, piano minor keys
and a vase stuffed with
ripped posters and soggy ink.
Turn around and no island, but
a storm and earthy leaves;
gowns; old basketball shorts;
our rooms, piles of melancholy and socks.