#81

Note each day the weather. Today, Friday: a thick white mist, obscure. Muffled sounds from the highway across the river bed. Passersby, their brows damp, and squinting eyes. Margreta in red jacket observes: "Oh! It's rained." But no it hasn't. A walk through fog, she pushes her bicycle by hand. The slow, clicking pur of its wheels. There upon the sloping bridge, we are closest to the sky. The solid path, cement, reflects the thin grey light at every angle, and the air in repetition glows. "116:" she smiles. "Deforestation, I've learned, was a real concern in England. So the relationship of bark to tree..."

Hear, I told Cat, em-bark. She nodded (and a strand of blonde fell from her forehead to her ear), though I know it takes time to hear such things. To hear them sing, I mean. "But time," I pointed toward the poem's sea, "alters differently than space." Sonnets numbered 47, 61, 93, and 90. Stefan, will you read them? Well. Time's compass, see: the space words need to travel. Not what it is, but where.

That's it, this evening, asks. Celebrity, question, pause. Silent jaws, knives across plates. Erica's iPod to 6" speakers: the sound of Django Reinhardt tinny and embarassed. "Drink," she'll say, her hand extended, and even Adrian will falter. A sea, a drain, the weather, travel. Reveries of days gone by, the old chords signal. And the weather, if one sees it, different now and always changing. Still walls, thick carpet. Dark but for one tiny desk lamp. Perhaps a cup of tea that steams.