Old rectangles came into my life today, in walls with windows, in hallways with stairs, in tall tales of Pythagoras on the road to Donegal
Thin slots, reminiscent of the rill constructed in another’s garden’, with log, with neoprene, with sand and water on the road to Nowhere
Alarm bells in square boxes guard the heavy wooded doors, elsewhere John Singer Sergeant is kept from public view, although if I recall he was on the road to Venice
