Memories of the Massey-Ferguson. I have never not had time to write. A rabbit scurries away, at last ducking into the Tipton's Weed, right beneath the crab apple. The generative impulse is God.
And birds sing, but we wake to Johnny Mathis in our heads. New sandals grate walking, heat rising off the pavement. There is never enough money and yet we manage it gracefully. Certain books of the bible grate too, so.
Certain fish hooks left fluttering in murky depths. I've killed more fish than anything else. The eggplant cooled while we talked about the skirt you're making. Tiger lilies and Fionnghuala's quiet insistence on - and devotion to - the image.
She entered the room naked and self-conscious and it was hard to say which moved me more. I've got to get back to the early sentences of Joyce's Portrait of the Artist. Try not choosing and see what happens. Your important arguments are always with yourself.
Mathis gives way to Dickinson, who appreciates a walk but knows you have to pay attention to old dogs. Tides, folds. It's after I like best, leaning into who you love, or loved. Who needs readers is not yet writing.