Saturday April 05, 2008

Here we have the beginnings of a spring sun; the pavement is warm on my palm pressed down, pressed down; the light through the glazier's trade, the stiff chill of waters, some above, some below, way below. {And S. talking about New Orleans and ghosts, and again ghosts, thinking about a dead man there again, who I loved like a brother. Way down south, coffin alone now I guess, corpse solitary and soaking, spread out along the waters, loose perhaps, out in the Bay. Those were, perhaps, the days.} (Back to work)