Here we are wet; we are underwater; we are swimming over. My favorite part of a day that began with a dawn run to an airport? The stolen hour of day-dusk no-sun paddling through Dickinson: three poems, one at a time. The perennial questions never tire, even when they do. What do you see? And why does it matter? What is strange? And why do you care? We could have sat with those poems for hours more, had I not had to leave for a meeting.
Tomorrow I will close the Valves of my attention / Like Stone. Each and every time the wrong distraction confronts me.