if it were only linear, if it were only linear

I’m on this mountain, chipping branches, brush, branches with my dad. Feeding the wood into the chipper. And our neighbor helps. And our neighbor helps. And our neighbor helps. And the monument for George Washington. And one of the largest office buildings in the world. And the political forces, with their glassy buildings. And the bookshop I desperately wanted to see but didn’t. And our friends. And our friends. And their hospitality. And their hospitality. And the Potomac River. And Goose Creek. I was a child then. Wading, sitting, letting the current be. And kinaesthesia is the wrong word. And the jet stream. And life. And all the land, and every tree that ever grew. And every behavior ever.

Spencer Selby's Twist of Address, Steve McCaffery's Prior to Meaning: the protosemantic and poetics

Have I slept through another act? I started some of the annuals indoors. Marigold. Zinnia. Columbine. All of them pale old buildings. Ghosts. Now you can start to see what things will look like. Last month I read a book. It was beautiful. The privacy of reading. There are only so many copies to go around. You know. And the new dog, her legs get in the way. She knocks over the stack of books I have next to my desk. And then she walks all over them. They are still there, scattered, on the floor. And a trip planned to D.C. in a few days. What will that bring? The shards of pottery in the sky look heavy and tired.

tennis racket