I’ve logged more experience than most with simplicity and the complexity you discover inside simplicity, minimalism and asocial behavior, endurance and landscape.
Here is the truth: I think some deep wisdom inside me (a) sensed the stress, (b) was terrified for me, and (c) gave me something new and hard to focus on in order to prevent me from lapsing into a despair coma — and also to keep me from having a jelly jar of wine in my hand.
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Total attention: cats’ to a bird beating
by the fire escape
Pointed entirely and unlike my own fish-floppy
mind bent up like this.
What’s missing from my poems, I was thinking.
Came up with love and devotion
— and the house is so cold today, and I
have a cold and daren’t bathe.
Hair is dirty.
Is poetry a diary? Or a report?
on what? The state of the moment?
The mind of the moment?
The Mind of the Moment —
what is she telling me now?
“Go eat your grapefruit, honey.”