If we were not at home, we would call this place beautiful,

Discuss its majesty, while the June light floods over it. 

But we are on our own ground, and barely look up or around ourselves.

A man may navigate these streets with his eyes shut, and know it better by following his working senses, than those who tap and touch their way through other people’s photos, and last night’s HBO ever can. 

Open any cookbook, and turn to the muckiest pages , there you will find treasure, buried beneath grains of Demerara and dried egg yolk.


About hereisthemoment

I write. Sometimes I don't.

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