A clear sky fills the backyard where I sit and witness the unburgeoning of intuitions green of wet grass ivy and random limbs under the tree cold feet warm back sandbox of wet sand and leaves and waxwings shitting in the maple tree. And in the house Briana cries herself from half a sleep, Vanessa pouts about every contrary thought, uncomfortable with her sprained wrist, and I try with half my soul to be nice and helpful while the other half pays no attention to the Brandenberg concerti on the stereo.
29 November 1981