Friday, January 25, 2013


The perfume bottles rattle when the dryer is on, a click a tinkle as the clothes tumble silently under the smile of Sophie sitting in the ranunculus field, a world away.

An old woman with one black sock and a flip-flop pushed a cart down the street this morning, reached into the blue cans, fishing for plastic and bottles before the truck came by, rattling.

He sneezed so many times in the early hours of the morning that I woke up from a dream of water and sticks floating, a house with open doors, rattled.

I Dwell in Possibility --
A fairer House than Prose --
More numerous of Windows --
Superior -- for Doors --

Of Chambers as the Cedars --
Impregnable of Eye --
And for an Everlasting Roof
The Gambrels of the Sky --

Of Visitors -- the fairest --
For Occupation -- This --
The spreading wide my narrow Hands
To gather Paradise --

Emily Dickinson

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