i’ve tried to find pretty words about the past week and i just can’t / so i’ll write plain words instead — about the rain tapping on the roof right now, the curl of fake heat that blurs my cheeks apple red – the pummel of news, the shading and shaping of words, the quick click ‘off’ of the tv remote when jamie walks in the room / the weekend spent cutting a hole my house, dragging a 300lb wood stove in and working all day for it to not work, to the click and rattle of rolling about in a circle again, the pull and push of the center of gravity to tug at my over-inculcation with news, with analyses, the inability to drown myself in paint – to curve into the corners of a brush, the tip inside the edge of a wheel and just keep spinning downhill, the joy of getting to take a walk outside with mr. bush on his 70th birthday last saturday, of getting to take home some of his pottery, to place it in my cupboards, my mentor of all mentors, the gift that goes beyond all days — the hunkering of winter, the drill of any screen into my eyeballs, the hush of any quiet memory ; the twirl of a new day, or the same day that keeps repeating, inside out and sideways through

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