The loose scraps of paper, on which she enjoyed writing, were liable to fly away if someone left a window open. But she firmly believed that fresh air blowing through the screens was the best– and certainly easiest– way to keep a house clean. So she allowed windows, and even sometimes doors, to be left open all hours in her household, and she trusted the breezes to loop her ideas back to her when she needed them.
Meanwhile, the cobwebs gathered in the ceiling corners, and at this rate would be pleasingly haunting by Halloween.
their red is an orange is salt and earth and wetness and is obscene.
tomatoes smell like toes dug into moist dirt, like vinegar seeping into crusted bread,
like bugs and leaves, and they look orange like the sun, like they are purring, there where they peek out from behind a leaf, a parchment thin leaf, and I can see that they have been drinking in the sun because they are golden and filled, heavy with juice.
the color of the tomatoes wants to come onto the canvas and be spread like seeds, like blood, and smeared in blocks, blocks that are tomatoes, smooth tomatoes that drop into my palm with gravity inside their skin.