the bookish festival in the space

of an hour beyond

when bedtime begs you.

over in the bay window, curled up

on cushions,

hot whiskey and water

the lemon tart and the honey slick

in my aching throat -

i croak for you.

yet nothing becomes of a small

apartment

dreamed into being -

for the smell of the paint on walls

i discovered in a dream

hint at garlic cloves roasted

with thyme.

like my patience.

i bough bread.

it is raining.

send instructions.

ⴲ.