Bushwick: Latex Flat
Sadness of just-painted rooms. We clean our tools meticulously, as if currying horses: the little nervous sash brush to be combed and primped, the fat old four-inchers that lap up space to be wrapped and groomed, the ceiling rollers, the little pencils that cover nailheads with oak gloss, to be counted and packed: camped on our dropsheets we stare across gleaming floors at the door and beyond it the old city full of old rumors of conspiracies, gunshots, market crashes: with a little mallet we tap our lids closed, holding our breath, holding our lives in suspension for a moment: an extra drop will ruin everything. D. Nurkse