Old house in Brooklyn with the broken rocking chair and the rotting pumpkins on the porch, sometimes we dont know our kite is about to strike lightning when we pour a cup of coffee... This place was always a rusty coffee can full of bent nails that someone might reuse someday, and occasionally the color wheel rearranges when our backs are turned. And things are over, and things are over again, the specifics are lovely but they dont matter... Wishes sent to smoke one snowy New Years Eve, a bony rose bush grew too high up a sun bleached trellis and came back down to tell us that heaven is the other people... and even the angels are too volatile to be trusted. So I learned to sing and I learned to be silent. We buried the dead crow under the dogwood tree and watched the sunset from the roof. When we crawled back in the window, there was hot cider on the stove, and a bottle of rum.
Posted on: Sun, 10 Nov 2013 23:22:42 +0000
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