A song at my finger tips, sun warming this space, shadows flying down the floor (and some smash into the glass, and break their necks), following the green up the hill, a form stretched out, the window rattles with the wind.
Sitting in the guesthouse's reception after serving breakfast and clearing out tables. Sunny Sunday, no sign of winter.
A rumbling in my head like a truck going down our dirt road.
YOU ARE READING
At the Gym with Allen GinsbergRandom
"I really would like to stop working forever-never work again, never do anything like the kind of work I'm doing now-and do nothing but write poetry and have leisure to spend the day outdoors and go to museums and see friends. And I'd like to keep l...