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