cloudy moon evening

fitting, somehow

I killed an aggressive wasp this morning
with a copy of Mary Oliver's
American Primitive

last of the berries rasp

not quite awake or focusing my eyes

I have some moderate distress this morning when I realize that my Hawthorne and Hardy brain-files have gotten mixed up.

I take the cure - lay hands on Thomas' poetry. I learn the number of spines I have to contemplate before he falls open.

too sleepy to get the right one, I dreamt, unsettled

Last night on my way to drifting off, I suffered a compulsion to read t.l. kryss about sunflowers and leaving alone any arguments about color. My tired mind grabbed the wrong book (the one with the most bookmarks). Small pieces of paper fluttered all over the bed and the book dropped to my face again and again. I could not find purchase.