Eve of the new year. Bitter cold city. I sit by the café window, bring the soup bowl to my lips. Someone in the park across the street is swinging high on a swing-set in the dark.
At least one keyhole has been stuffed with tissue by a previous tenant. So there is no seeing through.
A very partial morning. The things I am trying constantly to re-make, alter, edit, adjust. Bring myself always back to the path, and the path is hard to find. I do not always want it.
The early morning young mothers’ parade. A child I cannot see, screaming, “I need it! Give me!” Complete anguish of wanting.
A soft rain is falling, so fine it looks like dust in the air all around us, and everyone holds their umbrellas like a gift.
The knives come back sharper than they had ever been—sharper than new. We arranged them in the kitchen like an arsenal. We were afraid to put them away.
“What is your favorite place?” I asked the tree.
The place where I am.