Sleep of the wicket, peaceful, childlike. One doesn't so much read the world as a text, one proofs it. Writing poetry with a cat in my lap. At that point mid-life finally where I'm not the only one with a parent missing or dead. The line forms at the margin.
Clouds enclose the sky.
Hummingbird pauses on the tip of the branch. The day passes, as gentle and insubstantial as a cloud. In his grave, the bones of Baudelaire are counting sentences. The right fielder hovers anxiously under a pop fly that will never drop. In Moscow, classical music on the radio accompanies a change of state.