Wandering the lateral floor plan of the house's gloaming.
One room's watercolor of a Tunisian town in the strictest sunlight streeted around the warm pools of oasis
thickens by proxy the drink in my hand of unfiltered, pulpy a. juice.
One's anxious about fall floods and winter's approximating, about the absence of stars and the plenitude in roof gutters and curb grates.
One's anxious, too, with art, with the largeness of wanting geometry to breathe and offer deep kisses, to parturiate, bring hither a living wail, remove the curse of the night hills, the potential white hills.