Allen Ginsberg Exercise #6

A song at my finger tips, sun warming this space, shadows flying down the floor (and some smash into the glass, and break their necks), following the green up the hill, a form stretched out, the glass rattles with the wind.

Sitting in the guesthouse's reception after serving breakfast and clearing out tables. Sunny sunday, no sign of winter.

A drilling sound in my head like a truck going down our dirt road.