Here’s a story from the underground.
It’s called “Understory from the Ground”.
We were fishing apples and drinking limes. And there was peace above us. And there was also love. And Courbet was painting you and I was jealous.
You made it sound like a poetry because singing wasn’t invented. Yeats was laughing and Brâncusi wasn’t born yet. That’s what made it so great for me to feel you beneath my touch.
Mud is furniture for the leaves, don’t let anybody describe it to you otherwise!
I write big so you can read myself.
