IDK

Sometimes I read them, more often Not, the poem-a-days sitting there every morning waiting for me to open my email. Not, because only from time to time does one say anything to me or for me; usually Nothing, or more often they were trying to be kind and publish someone's rubbish. So the odds are negative, and generally I don't even bother opening. But this one, the title did, then the poem left me surprised 

A Moment Alone

A. Van Jordan

Sycorax As if someone blew against the back of my neck, I writhed up, becoming a wind myself,  and I flowed out the window of my bedroom. Maybe I also emitted a moan over the croaking  of the frogs that night. Then I raised my arms  to the clouds, rooting my feet deep in the soil.  A stretch, I called it.  Now—pure nature in the night,  too sway-of-the-trees wise to worry about men— I opened my nightgown but offered nothing  to anyone. This is for me, I said aloud to the night.  People would have laughed had they seen me  out their windows, naked but for my nightgown  flapping: I was small but the conviction of my stance  would’ve made me seem immense, framed  through their windows. Without my clothes  I was a world of possibility, more than a desire.  I, knowing better, I ought to mind my place,  I ought to walk like a lady,  I ought to demure myself to make him feel stronger,  I ought to mourn him when  he is gone. But every word I spoke to the wind  carried to him the scent of his regrets.  Every word blew through the night,  a breeze of my indifference.

and sort of sorry I'd opened and read it. Someone said indifference is more hurtful than dislike or hatred. I guess so. 

It's chilly outside, 'bout forty.

Oh, the Duesenberg J, a 2007 special creation, it's $349,000. But it does have red leather seats.

/S/