so help me, i believe i have just made a poem that is about a snake.
yes, it is really about a snake.
earlier today i was describing to mischka my love of the surfaces of things. "i only overanalyze people, dear," i said.
then i went back out into the snow & thought of the poem with the snake & came home & wrote it all down.
today is anton chekhov's one hundred forty-third birthday. not particularly in honor of it, for work i had to get my intracutaneous tuberculin test thing. (it's a secret, but i almost passed out just after.)
when i was in high school i had a crush on anton as if he were some boy in teen beat & i were the kind of girl who read teen beat & tore the pictures out of it for her walls.
