Beckett, Though They Say the Days are Getting Longer

So, I wrote this poem shortly before the other poem. It was a few days after Christmas and I was trapped in Stamford and in a developing relationship that I could have no part of. This period was also affectionately called "the quiet times" due to the fact that I was 80% deaf from double ear infections. It was my own fault. My close reading of Schopenhauer (evident from the last poem) inspired me to disavow western medicine and attempt to will myself back into good health. I was also writing a paper on WW2's effect on literary consciousness which justifies the Beckett allusions. It was a depressing period.

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Black branches root Connecticut
fog hills over sudden erosion
though the soil is weak from
the tyrant morning mists
the chipped oak splinters slosh and clog
old streams
receding into suburban lakes

Like back-page genocide
androgen photons
white Christmas in December rain
flood the sodden air
like headlights

The image melts
a deer that clacked across the interstate
disconnectedly
was corpsed, in a word, and sidelined

now waiting for the dew
with the aged leaves