rosemary
it’s foolish to think I could siphon a single line from these paint splattered street Cormac set Suttree upon- the best I’ll managed is a road map to points I’ve dreamt of through glasses tinted by some approximation of a recycled originality that might one day save me- the tilt of flagstones planted on legacy grounds well documented, staring at art I’ll never hope to understand- all part of the fabrications no one will step forward to verify- I’ll circle back a third time before the night’s over, rub a sprig of rosemary between my fingers and dream of home, a comfortable chair beside a fire I can stare into, some distant kettle warming the broth I’ll use to wash all of these dreams away, clean and undisturbed
