What if the night came to me? Like Paris skipped over the ocean to breathe me France.
Or what if my words were gold? or diamonds she could wear? or pillows on her for-never bed? Would she stack them? or hold them to her seashell ears? or place my words under her goodnight lamp, with the light on, so my glowing voice is always there?
Maybe the weekend drips me; faucets to spill me in the places that matter; a pipeline taking me to where I need to go.
Or maybe home row feels more comfortable than human conversation; hours spent talking to my writing- it thinks I’m silly.
Night-timing with the moon again; the whistling alleyways and orchestral streets alive with people, a comfortable view from my balcony, clean from the sweeping I finally gave it, and the burning candle like a flower I cannot place, the smoke tendrils tickling my nostrils, cracking me up.
The coming autumn runs its shivers deep.
My chilly apartment asking for a fireplace for Christmas.
Meaning to replace the burned out bulbs.
Rummaging in semi-darkenss for the book I love the most, losing myself in the first line:
“When he was thirteen, my brother Jem got his arm badly broken at the elbow…”
And Harper Lee, with her mockingbird, reads me to a happy sleep.