Some sort of free-form... poem(?) I wrote on the way to San Sebastian. Like I promised, it's edited a bit (meaning I dropped the dumb/pointless/embarrassing lines).
Buildings shrink low,
Drop down among strands of wheat, or corn.
Blurry little French cars dropping so far into the foreground
That they disappear.
Silence, minus a hum and a few clacks and clicks.
A sandwich on a baguette, split by sliver of steel, with too much cheese.
A peach, a tomato, and water to wash it down.
An old man walks by, blurts out "Shit!" (in French),
And his wife tells him to shut up (in French).
[dropped a couple lines]
A bottle of 5-Euro wine, opened by the tall bartended--
No, opened with the corkscrew she leant me.
Pines and the rest now, not so tight, but not plains.
Some clear-cut. Idle machines
Somewhat-alcohol-fueled thoughts through little towns, full of hicks
(Or whatever they call them here),
[some dropped]
Terracotta roofs in Bayonne, covered in moss, or mildew. Whatever.
[dropped]
Moving again, hemmed in by the trees they'd have cut down a few km back.
Empty seats everywhere.
Announcing Biarritz:
Looks more warehouse than Hemingway from here.
San Sebastian still ahead.
Hopefully a bit different.
[added]Hopefully some of that feeling I got from the books.
[dropped]
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