16

again, something misses: a pain, shifting back inside: the hole in my head I go into when something needs to be preserved: the body or an outlook, a passage perhaps, between me and the world, the line of tiny spiders each perched on its own small space: the crease, elbows along a metal geometry: the art of noticing, tending to what's there, asking for engagement: my whole being, every association that reverberates off unspoken words and shuffles past a full page of scrawl and is parsed out on a phone, or an email for that matter, about the need to keep making, experimenting, finding new ways to be in the world while still making a living: making a tapestry out of loosened strings, conversations and confessions over text message, apologies and late responses, a new circle in purple felt tip after discarding the plan: a walk at the river at sunset, a near full moon, a dinner of kale pesto, blitzed when there was too much olive oil, but as you said, there can never be