There A man in a red coat plays the piano with his elbows out. There is nothing in the other rooms. They have been sewing all day changing from town to country a thick wet road of tulip leaves running to music with puddles their imagination above the mud. A line of white stitching rises because it is solid like windows designed in prison. They cannot lie down in the swamp of short lace skirts leaning out a wall housed in high and narrow play mad people say must try to slope down at the corners of their beds.
|The East Village Poetry Web