March 11, 2009
work in progress, 16
The wood and the market. The weave of wicker chairs. The way the chair bulges, the way the wood that makes up the bulk of the chair bulges. The shape of it. The barrel, to an extent, of the wood that makes up the legs and back, not counting, of course, the weave of the wicker that sags between. And the lights of the streets as he walks. The well lit light of the streets seen from the porches he had the other way around, the streets lit with the light from the windows onto the porches. The porches lit and the streets less so, and a cleanness in the smell of the air he didn’t think he’d be able to get into himself outweighed by a sense of accomplishment at noticing the bricks.
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