Poets Love Plovers, I Can Safely Conclude

Poets love plovers, I can safely conclude after this summer (based on a sample size of 2). This bird was heretofore unknown to me.

This morning we woke to sad news. Always lose words when confronted with death, how to express condolences. In India, too, where words can run flowery, and when there is a question, one has a “doubt.” Problems that search engines can’t solve. And then saying place yourself in one’s shoes. Time stops. Punched in the solar plexus, wanting to howl a great big fuuuuuuuuck.

In the canyon of the buildings on 24th street, I spy a woman offering food to a man and wonder if she could be Jesus. The man takes the food, he cries out unintelligibly.

Then I start singing Sia. “Chandelier.”

Jessmar’s birthday today. Last time at home I laughed thinking of her pages of purple ink scrawled in the yearbook, her angry circles around my terrible headline for the Forensics team (“Cats Can Speak, Too”): “WHAT???”

These days were made for gelato. The city is humid but the light is liquidy and golden and makes you want to take pictures. People in the park, in twos and threes. All iterations. A thought rattles about radical relationship structures, but I can’t pin it down. Legs overlapping, scripts being read, kickboxers sparring, even a poem about possibilities sketched on concrete. I should have stopped in the grass.

Fruit flies on the wall. Or a hair at eye-level in a bathroom at work. Everything a distraction. Rage, rage against the dying of the battery. Greasy keyboard. “This article has multiple issues,” says Wikipedia on Jesus and Messianic prophecy.

The ships go out, the shipments come in, the cat sits contented, and I resist sin.

Now we break to chat with my colleague in Singapore. How to pick up the thread?

I need to escape the neighborhood for some fresh ideas. I have Italy on my mind. I return to this question of making a cul de sac come alive. I crack my knuckles and my vision blurs. I was going to make another rhyme.

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