I am writing more right now than I have since the days I blogged constantly about nothing. I am trying to work out what I am thinking in words when there are none that can describe how infinite I am feeling. I am sitting in the office and the shadows are playing on my tanned arms resting on the laptop at the desk in the corner. I am listening to Rachael Yamagata and reading The Mystic Heart. I am finding.

In the meantime, and for lack of actual content, a poem, not my own:

Book of Hours

Economically, she shakes her hair
back over her shoulders, gathers it
with one hand, and bends to drink
at the fountain. If this
were the opening of a story,

you’d think so she is that kind
of woman – solitary, or a dancer
in street dress who can’t cover
her practiced grace. You might
not be right, just a man who wants

to sleep with some idea or who’s read
that Chekhov described a character
in The Seagull simply as wearing
checked trousers. But still,
as in the Limbourgs’ miniature

of October, a gesture can illumine
or betray. Everything has a little
shadow: plowman and beast, scarecrow,
magpies, man sowing seed, and footprints
of that man. At the river

boats rest on their reflections;
a washerwoman bends over and her image
bends back so accurately it’s abstract,
a study of the momentary.
The way, for example, that you

looked up from your book, squinting
in the solid light. If this were
the opening of a story, I’d guess you
a man of lay devotions, taken
with the casual secrets of chance.

– Debora Greger


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