This morning I can find nothing to write.
I look in the coffee jar for a story and find only grounds and memory. On the porch, the wrens are at a nest and so, more than story, I concoct a wooden box and a hanging place under an eave near the open door.
The clouds puff above 50 degree air. I cut my typing fingers on a knife that had already seen more than enough blood from cow meat and chicken. I think about it. I say, “Where are the bones of time?”
Upstairs, the beds have shed their sheets. The walls tell me to get working on a bench, on the leaves, on a drawing maybe of a mouse or a bird or flowers. They tell me about a younger couple with children, how lumpy the pillows had been.
In the paper, news of thievery and wreckage. While writing this the ugly ping of a lose K. Robbers on the high seas and an image of a splash at night. The seal swims through the dark with a carpet pin. He rises to the underside of a life raft and pokes it full of a holes. And I see a flower flat under the moon, desperations dashed, a wren wondering at the meaning of boxes, his claws scratching at the door in and the door out, her mouth packed with dog hair, the black in her eyes already hatching July.
The garage doesn’t like me. My shoulders ache from the worries of life and dreams I had race through the pines with weird fluffy tails.
For some reason I slash the computer screen. I look this and that way for a middle, for happenings, wondering who that is with their face at the window, their fingers like spiders.
