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When the sun is directly overhead, shadows are foreshortened. Stories are shadows. The thickness of time when shadows are foreshortened. Through the window, an assemblage of buildings, triangular roofs, white blue yellow. The stillness in the air. The man in the room, relative of a relative. The tiny wooden violins he makes. The way the strings lay slack on the neck. The tiny bow. "A Christmas ornament" he is saying. The cup of coffee on the table. Through the window, an assemblage of buildings, triangular roofs, white blue yellow. The thickness of time when shadows are foreshortened.
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a gramophone its corrugated trumpet silver handle
spinning dog. such faithfulness it hear
it make you sick.
-kamau brathwaite
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