[remembering the mountain bed.]
in manhatten, the faces blur in disguise and mesh together in the grit, sturdying the sidewalks to keep the high rises afloat.
i much prefer the country, where the mountains squeeze into whatever space they can between the horizon's taut shoulders, undressing by morning for we who wait beneath with our milky coffees and hot eggs fresh from the pan.
how could i ever leave again?
i much prefer the country, where the mountains squeeze into whatever space they can between the horizon's taut shoulders, undressing by morning for we who wait beneath with our milky coffees and hot eggs fresh from the pan.
how could i ever leave again?