The thing now, of course, is to write another book, the novel. I have a tiny bit of it, but writing it…it’s like unwinding a ribbon in such bright light you can’t see anything for the glare. Or dreaming of egg yolks, doubled. Or trying to catch up with a poem as it dips below the horizon. Maybe slipping into a Burberry I’ve always wanted one.
Certainly the foundation is there, underwire. Lace. Brassiere and panty set stockings thigh high yes. It will not be about me, at all. It is a made up girl who I think has blonde hair. Definitely a red coat a child’s coat she crinkles her nose the East River smells.
Clearly the thing is waiting. And the other thing. And of course, the poems that need tending and the stories so long tucked away their greasy hair and dirty nails so thin paper thin I’ve not fed them in so long.