I want to grow peonies.
After all, the best thing one can do when it is raining is let it rain.
—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (via likeafieldmouse)
Could I have a little slice of that sunlight coming through your skylight, falling across your doorway like a lady in a slinky dress? I haven’t had any breakfast yet, and it looks like it tastes like lemon meringue pie.
The day spent naked for more than an hour unbrushed hair
the day made the carpet bluer
coffee tremors through palms of hands
the day oystered the night with the dream
of nights and days of cabinets and passageways
of trying to find Brussels when the city does
not match the map you’ve got
the dream pooled in your head, only the oil slick of sleep on top,
the day unlearned, unhad
the day, how to know it, not touching the sunshine.
If there is a reason for a newspaper
other than to name that the color of this gray day,
If Philadelphia weren’t a place I skirted from west to east,
the day’s gone silver before it’s begun.
This is what new things look like in the city.
Make a white dish bloom across the floor.
Find that recipe for a winning meatloaf and don’t make it—carry it with you on the subway every morning, where you and the same people who go to work at 8:30 shuffle yourselves around until you start to recognize white knit hats and faces in the same way the kings get acquainted with the queens in a deck of cards.
Dismiss the red earth.
Live at least 3 stories above the ground.
Sit on your roof.
Hold beefsteak tomatoes with your two hands. Bergamot will begin to follow you. Aspire to a dozen cups of tea a day.
But still, in the morning, (don’t make your own coffee), wait for the subway to come above ground at Spring Garden, look for the spring light like lace upon the water front, regret that your stop is next,