Window

If I had anything to report, it would go something like "I did some laundry, went to the post office, cleaned the apartment, tried some new recipes, rewatched some movies, read James Ellroy, read David Mitchell, worked on the Interminable Project & acted as though there were no such thing as poetry."

I think about writing but am not doing any anyway. Attempts are lumpen, with too many legs or too few.

This space is a lull between what's back there and what's next. It's like all of Brooklyn is a waiting room.

Departures interest me, because we'll be making one. Arrivals are a category to be ambivalent about. News arrives. The phone rings and we cringe. Have no choice but to pretend the news is fiction, a long movie, bloody, yet somehow still more boring than tragic. I say fire those writers.

The five-year mark looks different from here than it did five years ago. Almost five years ago we got married in New Orleans a few months after watching the world fall down. Everybody flew for the first time after. We loved them for it.

Five years from now is an open blank. (The pen hovers.) The grass and trees are different. The bodies of water have different names. There's plenty to see, take pictures of, learn. The books are the same. We're the same, mostly, maybe a bit more ourselves. There's a kitchen window that I'm standing in, waving to you outside.