at the bottom of a set of stairs much like these,
at water’s edge, a green moss
I stepped down into it,
giving way into sea of green and yellow string beans
the slope, too (a hill of?)
the way up is slippery, tread deliberately (not the same as carefully)
(break for discovery)
dreams (again) of belgium (running out of time)
***
i decided last night that I will start reading fiction again, to stop my compulsion to create drama in real life.
he wants to make me soup.
a man who made my life miserable, gone from this world. I will deliver the news.
i miss those women who burned with an inner life.
an objection: writing is the only place where everything is clear.
the law of the father - you cannot save anything without first giving it a name.
