13.01.07 - 9:52 a.m.

as i am not fickle, i do poorly with others' indecision. on bad mornings, i pad barefoot to the bookcase and take mary oliver from her place between frank o'hara and ovid. we get back in bed with our glasses on and she tells me you do not have to be good. the elegiac couplets, the surrealism of her neighbors haven't worn off. she is staid, an old woman looking skyward for geese. as i read i think that the tiny figures, the pieces of your present, might suit her better. i can see her surroundings; i cannot see yours.