Pain of it
to
say to my father my career is waiting rooms and I need hardwood floors
and white-framed windows, that the mornings be important because I am
alone in time, and there is light that must come through two windows
across the bed let it shine on the books at my feet. I want that ipod
charger/speaker/alarm clock so that I can listen lower and lower to
emmylou harris, as it's always a matter of wist in the morning and the
alarm of sadness that is shedding and leaving things in the light. My
house that I am losing on the snow and the mountain for my dad. The
picture of it and the cat asleep in the closet, fireplace that is just
a hole in the picture of us, as I was saying at the terminal on
standby, with this handmade Bolivian bag that someone's always
appraising, the colt's last stand in san diego, things I need a chair
for to tell.
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