everything's real after 1 a.m.
my shoes are scattered at the foot of the closet, black, brown, cordivan; a baby blue guitar against a thin, wood-grain bookcase full of books i haven't read, and a few i have. the walls are stark white but for the intermittent black specs where i've thrown books at flys or spiders. The basement room's like a bug depository. but my window well --stacked railroad ties that form the half-a-hexagon that lets the sun in--provides a solid background off which the lunar calendar behind me and the photos from sicily on the wall adjacent reflect perfectly at 1 a.m.
my shoes are scattered at the foot of the closet, black, brown, cordivan; a baby blue guitar against a thin, wood-grain bookcase full of books i haven't read, and a few i have. the walls are stark white but for the intermittent black specs where i've thrown books at flys or spiders. The basement room's like a bug depository. but my window well --stacked railroad ties that form the half-a-hexagon that lets the sun in--provides a solid background off which the lunar calendar behind me and the photos from sicily on the wall adjacent reflect perfectly at 1 a.m.