6 p.m. feels early because I rose at two, muddy-minded. Maxfield Parish sky stretches out
like the figure of a woman freckled with wisps of cloud.
The air is stifling, thick like a builder’s fingers, painting this white shirt to my broad chest.
Peeling it off, I run my hand over my beard-shadow. Roman crocodiles turn over in the gelatinous truths of Hemingway’s sentences.
The one unheard and the one unseen are approaching with soundless rumors of what lies in store –
a tropical downpour, a love of darkness, a want of light…
the music of drunkards and whores, my friends, shall narrate this night.