Friday, January 28, 2011

the wooden hill

the paint on the front door
is older than my eyes

pushing against the door's heavy body
i follow
the staircase's cautious winding
and away from the street

edward hopper stairway at 48 rue de lille, paris

moving side-to-side
i can hear the soft giving creak
and feel the curved metal edge
of each stair

my hands curl and
grip the thick softness of the railing
even as my tongue
draws thickly against
cracked dry lips
that crave nothing more
than wine
and sleep

on the landing
the number seven
tilts slightly
on a red door
thick with age

the smells of cooked cabbage
and fish
swim grey and thin
in air long-yellowed
and tarnished
by hope long forgotten

pressing the key
into the lock
the handle turns reluctantly
admitting me through its dark frame

i am home

the frayed signposts
of a well-worn track
toward the window

through which
i see snow
painting the softest pale-grey
light on the rooftops

pressing my lips to the window
i watch my breath
spread outwards like an island
on a glassy sea

gustav caillebotte rooftops with snow