#tar 9

To the Stone House On those sandstone steps, where Woolf once sat and cried, we talked down bottomless wells into the night, and his wordwater gurgled forth, all erratic and strange; minerals of memory and imagination mixed, earth and thought, into a flavour too rich to taste in full. "It's a wood cabin," he said and rocked. I said "What's a wood cabin?" but he just rocked on the steps of the sandstone mansion, the dark innards of his well trying to reveal themselves all at once. "What's a wood cabin, Andrew?" He rocked. "I just remember it."