A Prose Poem by a Synesthetic, Inspired by Zoe Keating’s “Tetrishead”
Music spills from her in rivulets, winding about itself and through the room — suddenly a night sky, a scatter of light from stars — red wine thick like oil paint. It smells of windy hills out here in the middle of dark and moon, inside this old photograph dipped in evening honey.
Posted in: Music
not very alice 
Blot
July 12, 2011
Ohhh, where do you find all these? The cello, it speaks to me, and tells me these delicious little nothings that soothe my heart but leave it heavy when the music stops.