have fate Put away the basin wrench or whatever talisman you’re holding. That sink will get fixed, you say, closing the undercupboard with the regret of a layperson. Sometimes you’re the layperson, sometimes you’re the expensive mechanic with a secret nest of wrens in his chest. Treat everyone as if they’re a small bird until you can prove otherwise. Don’t stop watering the cyclamen. Naïve, sure, an apartment is the opposite of a nursery but the light’s near southern & it grapefruit-colors a rug. See a specialist about the spirits coming through that door. You are hallowed, not haunted, not downstairs in the disused wing. You’re nouveau in a baby of a country, it’s a child, showing the place to its parents, the gods, who are proud their dearie made a tree. The walls outside your room say have fate & you chat to a bartender who gives you free shots. It ends there for once, innocent, the credits rolling early in Gramercy then the 1, the 2, the 3. Comments are closed.
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