Does anyone still paint by numbers? I once made a fine pair of canvases––birch trees on a stream rippled by dabs of white. I
Childhood summers were patent leather, were dancing music played above her, were rounded uncles, soft as cushions who’d raise her, squealing, above their shoulders
but I forgot rollerblading past knobby old oaks, hollows gaping at our speed. I forgot wheels stuttering on cracked pavement, skidding on fallen olives,
Feel like fallin’ in love with the first woman I meet, Puttin’ her in a wheelbarrow and wheeling her down the street. Bob Dylan