The first one to rise on a Sunday morning,I enter the white bathroomtrying not to think of Christ or Wallace Stevens.
All winter long they are occupied only by their vacancy.The paintings look out from the white walls.The wicker beds and the wicker chairs are not taken.
In lieu of the breakfast I knew he couldn’t Chew, we spent the morning smelling Brief flowers and giving a try at dangling Our agonies to passersby.