Sometimes you want it easy, the print curling halfway above a dotted line, the floury clay a turquoise crust on your fingers, the vista open. What you get are pre-teen curses and a restless freaking awareness of the width of the body-wide table.
I knew the dark cafe was dying, the site of battles lost. The bright cafe is a surface impenetrable, too slick to slip beneath and watch, alligator-pitched, the way they flit back and forth.
A quarter of an hour spins a silver shadow on this page. Buy me a bit of time, put it down like a gambler on the table.
When she comes with coffee, the bill will be paid; when she comes the dregs, I will drink; when she comes with the boat, I will paper her eyes with poems.
No comments:
Post a Comment