I feel a soft gust of wind coming from the hallway, as when a door or a window is let open on a cool breezy night, and then Sunday, the Cat, appears, riding on that cool air like a creature from Remedios Varo's brush, golden and white, glowing with a light of her own, and I am very happy to see her, she purrs and walks around me in a circle a couple of times. The time is usually one or two in the morning, the ritual hours, and then she jumps on the table on which I am doing this or that, and sometimes she lies down and rests her little head on my arm or my hand, or she just lies down on whatever I am working on or reading, and when she does that, I almost always freeze in place because I don't want to disturb her unguarded sleep, and because I think it is such a privilege for me to have her trust, the trust of this beautiful creature who, one Sunday after Thanksgiving of last year, showed up and decided to stay, and has since then become a kind of psychological talisman, a necessary presence to balance or smooth out the rough edges of the days

minimalist collage with rose and water

I unmemorize

the hymns of logic

from the slumbering tongue

and the inner lifeframes

where a space I hold

for the barefoot steps

when they come

in flower-like silence

through the gravity

of air and water

And hands and heart

-cast iron breathing, I open

for the sensual burial of reason

2:09am

For each hollow hour of the day there is a hollow space in the hours of the night, overflowing with the insistent glow of truths, descending as sounds and light that may survive beyond the seeing and remembering, beyond the handprint traces in the lanscape, a swaying of storm lamps behind closed eyelids, astrolabes 2:15am

pigs on the wing

A word and a body of water

The song of days begins with a quiet word out of a shout, looking for a door to the still instant, to the time that does not pass, to drown the tungsten sun's thirst breathes under the water's shroud 2:59am

the unspillable blood