There is a smell of tar outside
the sounds of cars and passersby.
Abandoned warehouse; lights in-
side will make us come to that
someone seriously's lied. No more
colorful coverings, just ever-grow-
ing sets of things: plain smothered
coming by in groups of two, all
beige, and simplified. No text on
the insides just
blank pages. No
tufts of ringlets on
the edges. Just a
life of things expected.
·
There is a growing sense of
coffee in this liquid; it's a glass
of water. There is a bitterness
in letters
received afterwards.
There is a packing slip mis-
placed. There is a space of
ever-growing placement.
—proper placement.
There is a soft and
gilded casement.
·
There is a fire of autumn leaves
whose densing smoke cannot
decide if consequences alfresco
are worth the gains of ready ease.
Receiving people hence, like me
smell the smoke, enjoy without
guilt their not choosing it. Admitting
that they love it, for it's
gluttony. It's polyglot
response to honesty.
