in_the_house_of_the_sphinx jane In the House of the Sphinx In the attic of the morning, there is nothing but darkness and dust These walls embrace like a womb, nestled in cobweb placenta Until slowly, light dawns through the window, revealing particles that glint in the sunny beam. In the dining room, placidity gives way to a bustling brunch: Almond muffins and blueberry scones, grapefruit juice or sun tea set in white china laced with tiny dark forget-me-nots. The blue room, the afternoon, lazy Sundays condensed into yellow faces on the backs of chairs. The air hangs heavy, Tired from a long day of sunning Kicks off it’s shoes, and exhales. The cellar of the evening is characterized by it’s smell: years of wine collected, catalogued, the musty paper of old love letters, mildewed manuscripts and mothball jackets, ceiling dark and dripping. Night is buried in foundation, six feet down, sleeping with the tender roots of grass. The filters of damp soil recycling the earth to be baked by the sun tomorrow. 041211 ... phil belly of the wind romantic smell of the cellar 041228 what's it to you? who go blather from