Faux Thaw
D. R. James
If ever a day so deceitful, so
promising in its delicate sunshine, you’d stow all the wools and flannels, change out screens for storms—the mud-framed sidewalks, matted gardens so bathed in clemency you’d stamp COMMUTED on the calendar and free those squirmy inmates from their times-sevens and prepositions to make a giddy getaway into rumpus rooms of blue and wispy white—today: that kind of day. |