The night Abraham called to the stars.

I sat down tonight to reread the book that made me decide once and for all to drop everything and start writing poetry about 2.5 years ago. I can read the whole thing in about 20 minutes, or 20 hours if I'm being contemplative. How dearly I wish for a morning where my head is bright enough to read by the window until it is time to make lunch or go on a date or see my mother. These mornings my body is deep in rest, since sleep is the only time my anxiety really stops. Although, in most dreams I am afraid of something, like last night it was a giant pelican. I want only a moment of emptiness in which the words hang like apples on the very verge of falling. A week in the countryside where they are more than just pictures in my head, the center and not the flowery periphery.

I am so tired of the winter. Actually, I'm tired of bricks, and muggy trains, and sitting down for 10 hours a day. I wouldn't mind walking in the woods over the tiny mousetracks and being amazed "at the accumulation of snow" and the gails. I doubt snow would turn black as soot there. Maybe this weekend I'll take a ride to see the white places.