March 12th, 2017

Bed, hair cast over the white headboard behind me in a slummish drying rack. Didn’t mean to get it so wet rinsing off suntan lotion. Blue bottom sheet, 90s leftover, health club periwinkle, crayon indigo with plenty of black, matte as 2016 lipstick. Afternoon Daylight Savings. Window less-than-robber open. Blue sky that magic-stone, holy-stone phenomenal blue, astounding when you lie and look up at it. Birds throwing notes like weights on strings. The other day standing, about to circle table, hands on computer bag she had just laid down, J: her customary catish next-thing energy. Said: “In the spring, the birds have a certain song -!”