1) Someone stayed up all night scratching color into rough paper. Something solid from the northern beaches. The cold’s a present from the sky. A crushed 40 oz. and helpful plastic everywhere. Once out of the equation, a subject blushes and is irked by its own emotional accidents. Watchers and snarky students have opinions. So the sky takes the top half of the page, as if it had an idea, a plan for it.
2) From the baroque earth, you notice many pairs of hands sprung up, to till the soil of expectant heaven, also baroque. The Real takes shape, verging on ‘a character in a play’ with which nobody bothers anymore. The bother’s been consumed by a few rococo resurrections. Along the lines of radio waves approaching distant ears. Flat as a cyclone. As all writers face the predictions and perils of a touching solicitude. This one, for instance, goes on past early agonies to inoffensive laughter at sunrise, at hammocks, at liberty.
3) As people say, it’s clear that one doesn’t understand how people say things. Awkward must be real, tipped over and leaking the actual into these public rooms. Take my card, lady. You never know.