As you can see, a beautiful day.

 

Expansive.
The sun, and warmer than expected,
Crowds flow gingerly,
A granulated movement.

And, once again, I wonder

—if I lived
in a warmer climate,
what would the metaphor for winter be?
And, would I be happier more often?
Rhythm slowing?
Just a thought after the sudden daunting
of last weeks’ early dark.
A list.
Woke up late.
Made toast.
Went to Cafe Cafe to drink my coffee on the bench.
Read last weeks’ New Yorker.
(missed some things)
Dawdling by the shop windows,
I don’t need the red scarf I am wearing.
Nothing much to say,
haven’t read the paper, either.
Back at Apple Store on Prince
writing this, now.

 

 

Later.
Margaux has come and gone and
wine from Chile, free samples.It’s dark now,
and still warm.
(bought three bottles and opened one)
for dinner with Robert (janz).
Beef, rice with potatoes and sauteed spinach.
It’s been awhile.
Talking all energized, talking poetry.
Spouting mad, too.
Both of us.
Lots of us.
Politics feeling hijacked.
The swaying of the pack.
The rhythm of attack
becoming unbearable.Do you trust it?
Is it just energy?
Can’t we turn it?

 

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