#1

The weather, a smear of winter in my springtime. Cleaning. What horizons? They're forgotten. And "selectivity," he said, "is the schema of friendship." I subscribed and subscribed again, numbered 48, and alerted security.

For they were they in the sunshine, slaves unrespited of low pursuits. I was another. God, the mystery, a resonance resounding behind the background. I had a credit card. A stack of library books. And almond cookies, when it rained, which it did, too often.

My mother was an archivist, inherent and inspired, and ardent in her love of things prosaic. A ship at sea. Of whom Les once wrote in a letter, "worried we were by the forest: wandering, wandering, wandering." I remember the flanks, the parting of wood by sky, the birches that sloped towards day.

You were dead. And I walked with you to the river, where you gave to me my story. It was a sapling. Yggradsil. "Water it with . . ."