from the red light
of the living room lamp
glowing without a shade,
I read your book
and tell you it’s great.

I love the way you write
texture and taste,
but I say: maybe you could
describe the walls
or the floor,
because I want to get inside.

this thing,
this alive
but strangely unalive
thing,
is something I can’t easily
put down in ink.
it’s both a drug
and a story.

the rain looks like snow
in one thin strip
of grainy sunlight
against the mustard walls
of a cheap apartment complex,
while a rainbow overhead
stays with me
until we part.

^{_{(Daily Writing 100)}}