After she died I lost my voice. Maybe she was my muse. Or someone to fight against. Maybe it was the process of finishing a book so quickly. She was in the hospital, out of the hospital, I was down in the city, back up here. It is months later. 7, going on 8.

Time, someone said, is so inhuman.

I am coveting a vintage fringed suede jacket in superficial moments, of which there are about 1 in 170 right now. Many moments are remembering the white room, the white light. One of the stories will have to bathe its pages in that light. And meanwhile Cabela's is selling a cowgirl jacket for 70 dollars and the tough thrifter in me has a moment herself and says, I think 20 would be right.

When he walked in, I sneezed.

People of the morning: Michael P. Nordberg (Tucson), Mary Schwab (NYC Brooklyn), Nancy Martin (NYC Brooklyn). Endeavors: Eric Sanko's puppet show. Richard Siken's everything. There is a difference between an artist who soaks everything up and spits it out in her own color and the person who is a sponge and can't stop. You can see where this might go on those self=doubting days.

The sun on the wet road this morning was worth soaking up. The scarlet berries of the wahoo bush outside. The particular grin on the old dog's face in the photograph as she pants, happily, her paw on the log she just spent the last hour fetching.

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