Tuesday, March 19, 2013

Ice water and oranges

What I saw

A still room
My room
Clean and shining wooden floor
White bed, white linens
White curtains
Rising falling shifting silently at the partially open windows
That are high enough off the ground that I fear nothing
No sound
The near-silent imagined murmur of early summer
Well perhaps the note of a distant bird
Not a note
Just sleeping and drifting
Not anything
For days weeks months
Living on ice water and oranges


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