among the torn silks of phrase

mood: a spiderweb trapped
music: inni mer syngur vitleysingur, sigur ros

raindrops & snow & hail
kept falling into the open cups
of the daffodils
outside the windows of the
senior common room.

recollecting
the comforts of
candied tea-party nostalgia
reading all the final
dusty mirrors like silverscreens.

in the brick hall at the farmer's market, a girl sits on the snow-stained floor and she plays the accordion. i can tell it by the sound, by the pattern of missing buttons. i have studied the same tractions of unfolding paper & silence. from across the crowd, i can smell old books, i can still smell the leather & cigarettes.


this is a celebration list i made today:

-marmalade jars
-pale blue ducks for my jacket
-york redoubt, without a
-seagrasses
-linens & laundry
-melodica
-listening, watching, thinking parties
-homemade bread
-fishing for bicycle baskets
-shoot the expired film
-take-home exam


we are quietly in the kitchen, r. and i, sitting on the counter while you look closely at the greasy edge of the knife. i am waiting for smoky tea to finish steeping so i can sit cross-legged at the end of my bed & finish my last paper. you are waiting for the wide open feeling to become more tractable, more a simplicity like breathing.
everything sounds mottled right now & i am thinking about collecting a sleepy army of alarm clocks. (so close, so near & even still, adjusting focus.) red moons over open bridges, the puckered sweetness of burnt cookies & the velvet birthday, lines like tightropes in the sky, rain in my shoestringing, downtown candles & raw guitars, russian fairy stories and all the textures of here.