I'm sitting at a wooden desk
A quill in a *** as black as pitch
And with feathers as soft as sea water
The desk with peeling white paint
Has drawers
With crooked silver sconces
To hold the candle stumps
At night, as I write
I use parchment, not paper
Stroking the rough, grainy surface of it
Waiting for my fingers to go numb
In front of me a window
Of warped and misty glass
But I throw it open to feel the air
As its wafts, heavy and salty
Past the curtains I've hung there
And clings to my face and neck
I pretend I am the sea
Clasping the quill in my hand
Freshly dipped into its ***
I write in thin, twisting letters
I imagine they are grape vines
Twisting through an orchard
Fat with grapes
Purple from the sunrise
And these letters make words
So sweet
I can almost taste the wine on my tounge
Nov 27, 2012
Nov 27, 2012 at 10:54 PM UTC
I'm sitting at a wooden desk
A quill in a *** as black as pitch
And with feathers as soft as sea water
The desk with peeling white paint
Has drawers
With crooked silver sconces
To hold the candle stumps
At night, as I write
I use parchment, not paper
Stroking the rough, grainy surface of it
Waiting for my fingers to go numb
In front of me a window
Of warped and misty glass
But I throw it open to feel the air
As its wafts, heavy and salty
Past the curtains I've hung there
And clings to my face and neck
I pretend I am the sea
Clasping the quill in my hand
Freshly dipped into its ***
I write in thin, twisting letters
I imagine they are grape vines
Twisting through an orchard
Fat with grapes
Purple from the sunrise
And these letters make words
So sweet
I can almost taste the wine on my tounge
