The Pales
︎︎︎ Jean Hartig
︎ JULY 11, 2022
Pale eden. Pale division. Pale distortion. Pale surprise.
Pale dress, happy in the rolling foam of traffic outside
when you were alone. Pale branch masks a meaningless
eclipse. You played at its signals, a lunar pale that lacked
location, cheek of desire a ruby under snow at some
distance. Pale harmony. A classic pale that scissors the
scene, wash of white. Pale scissor. Pale rupture. Pale
utterance—I mostly loved, I mostly knew, I mostly
devoted each cell to that arrival, fading beam on the
column. Pale entrance. Pale weight. As you shift your
shadow among the sculptures. Pale scent. Pale tense, the
one with the kiss. Pale argument, regarded through
glass. Skirt split past the monument, last seat on the
out-of-town bus. Tunneling frost snaps the screen that
describes his bleach-blank eye. Pale plume from the
fountain. Pale square. Pale document, with error.
Pale dress, happy in the rolling foam of traffic outside
when you were alone. Pale branch masks a meaningless
eclipse. You played at its signals, a lunar pale that lacked
location, cheek of desire a ruby under snow at some
distance. Pale harmony. A classic pale that scissors the
scene, wash of white. Pale scissor. Pale rupture. Pale
utterance—I mostly loved, I mostly knew, I mostly
devoted each cell to that arrival, fading beam on the
column. Pale entrance. Pale weight. As you shift your
shadow among the sculptures. Pale scent. Pale tense, the
one with the kiss. Pale argument, regarded through
glass. Skirt split past the monument, last seat on the
out-of-town bus. Tunneling frost snaps the screen that
describes his bleach-blank eye. Pale plume from the
fountain. Pale square. Pale document, with error.
Jean Hartig is a writer and editor living and working between coastal Maine and Brooklyn, New York. Her project Woman with Packages can be found at @womanwithpackages. Her website is jeanhartig.com.