The clouds are softer, followed by the proofs and puzzles. Exactly the fold of these blue flowers. What is
the purpose of you know the significance of the timely entrance of bloom and decay. Warm, in the
expectation of weather. The specific fog, the breathing of something new. Enemies of the room facing you
now about face not about you but the you you are wearing. You hum the familiar struggle that defines us.
Raking dry leaves, leaving soft memories and you admit to this. The yellow work in relation to feeding.
Defined merely by the hold on the place. Indication of the wants of place and sunglasses, left behind. It
was supposed to be cloudy today. Is there a purpose still able to wax the way to Mexico? The surveillance
undermines the platitudes of freedom, sure, but we all like to be looked at. The meaning of the word like a
funeral laid bare. Inventory turned full and moaning with power. The fact of the ball of my foot. That
Western idea of Fall. Endlessly telling me about that chair. That Eastern view of Spring. Occasionally I will
be reminded of anything. And look who’s pummeled and ears pop. Do they insist on what you not want not
at all? It isn’t always awkward in the future. Traces, leaning, should overlook the face on my floor, the
stains that say more about me than I do. I’m shorn now in stages. I sound like the formal dangers of my
fault, and it’s a minuet. I blacked out and please within this, just please, cornered to the stone left on the
street left waiting for winter and something that will cover it well enough to allow it to sleep well enough
alone. But the feeling of being along right next to it. We’re learning more about this light, this happening
at Studio 54. Nothing is happening at Studio 54. We opened your mouth a better flying for it. This more
great is moist. Smoldering contemptuous of another contemplation. The birds come and go, you notice
from time to time. The ones that fly do, anyway. Like an informal salutation, greet it all informally. This is
the in-between. Say, “Hey, Fall” not “Dear Mr. Autumn”. Say “‘sup Spring” not “Dear Ms. Spring”. Never
employ the words left scattered on a San Francisco apartment floor. San Francisco has no seasons. Strays
of disorder and run down withdrawal. The confusion amid the sun’s rise. It sounds so much like
heathering. The extended child I did park and left to wander for herself. The choices to see, you mean
personally. The delete function is so unintuitive I’ve lost so much by accident. The impression on the
mantle is one of xylophones. People would go there to tie up affairs, and maybe after midnight we’d be
able to get in. The seeming is being established.
It is Summer now. And I am hot for the fall.
