with the lip of this notebook.
Boy, I’m sluggish.
Thought I’d tell a story
about the breeze on my face,
a San Francisco breeze
that “rekindles the spirit” —
I,
the story,
like a husk of a man,
slept all weekend with fever.
Apparently, he really likes me.
I can’t tell a story.
Don’t open up.
Walk on.
