The clouds are mute, silent and still
I’m convalescing from superstitions
the force propels, distracts, destroys
notions of certainties
Finding three pennies while I’m walking
a trout for every cast
3 paragraphs to bring in the orbit
vignettes I place in a porcelain bowl.
They come unbidden like insomnia
and derail delicious daydreaming
I try to be consistent
We only fail when we try hard
innocent apprehension of work
like looking for remains of dinosaurs
We do not barge in with our eyes close
like dying with curiosity,
an idiosyncratic expression of pleasure.


note: I’m enjoying reading Moby Dick and Manhattan Beach. I also started reading The Art of the Wasted Day by Patricia Hampl.It’s a busy day. I finished reading the other books.

photo: Napa River

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