This week you're a water tower, the kind you see outside New York, with the city or town name across the bulbous white head, except your head is filled with snot that will not drain. Fire and ice. You're burning up in a sweatshirt and wool
Let the chair do the work.
Exciting pub news.
The taffy quality of a Zyrtec sleep. Just because you take a 24-hour Zyrtec twice a day, per your doctor, because peak pollen, doesn't mean you have 48 hours to your name. You have, at best, four to six hours, thirsty hours, during which you open bottle after
A letter every Sunday at sunset • If you're always looking, after some time you'll have seen
An excerpt from my essay in SEARCH WORK.
She was waiting for the cat to go to sleep so she could start something, or she was waiting for the cat to wake up any minute now, so she didn't start anything. * The little jars of jam he’d brought back from all over the world, none
I'm back in "the real world" as of Tuesday night.
More of a postcard than a letter this week
It took two weeks to make the studio mine
"Child, where do you traipse about in the night?"
Sunset in Amherst, VA, today is twenty-four minutes later than in Bloomfield, NJ.
Haircut panic.
Say less.
This storm is named Fern. A cat named Fern scratched Ilya once.
Bobina doesn't get paper cuts, or eat too many raisins (or any raisins at all), and she does not count the years or minutes or steps. She looks cute always, and never deletes later. And when the stuk-stuk-stuk of men putting in a new roof for the neighbors
