Stephen King, The Bazaar of Bad Dreams
Posted on November 8, 2015
The biggest compliment I can bestow on how much I wanted this book is that I went (on a train) and picked it up from the library on a Saturday, with a hangover, when I received the email saying the book awaited. I do not normally face the world hungover. (I also obtained cake.)
I've been rationing The Bazaar of Bad Dreams ever since. So much to say so far; the man is a genius.
But for now, a poem. Added where it didn't need to be to make the story: that's part of why he's a genius. (Although I could, as always, do without the exclamation mark.)
Shadow-print the road
with black lipstick kisses.
Decaying snow in farmhouse fields
like cast-off bridal tresses.
The rising mist turns to gold dust.
The clouds boil apart in ragged tresses.
It bursts through!
For five seconds it could be summer
and I seventeen with flowers
folded in the apron of my dress.