, , , , ,



Is it so wrong to stare

at a weathered wooden fence

covered lightly in ivy,

to watch its quivering tracery on the ground,

at the expense of being late?

Is it so wrong to sometimes wish

you could move through time

like an aristocrat in a Russian novel,

to feel like you have all the time

in the world to rise after noon,

take tea, visit the countryside,

and dine close to midnight?