Monday, October 28, 2013


A charcoal painting above my piano sometimes 
has a witch in a house in it, and sometimes it has
only the wind. Sometimes I love it, and sometimes
I love it more. And I love it best when the wind 
comes along, sweeps up the witch,  the house, and 
leaves us with a blank canvas, and I am three years old
again, and not afraid of ghosts, although I don’t
feel that way, although everyone says I look that way
in the beautiful house in the painting where I live.

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