|
January 08, 2005 | 6:16 p.m.
i'm coming home. |
|
books bound and covered in the thinnest leather of wrinkling skin. stories stained sepia by an age i cannot name.
they tell of summer's with no sunsets, just dusk all day and boys smoking on their mother's stoops, scabbed and sweating from all that stick ball. then slow to bed with hat heads and bellies bloated with quarter beers. i want cities to exist like this |