draft

As I listen to Diane Seuss read Lyn Hejinian, I hear in the background the spurt steam of the hotel iron as you press across the polished cotton blue. I say God bless you several times.

Enclosures and colors and whispers frame routine that could be sadness on another day. Outside it is New York street shine and unpolished ways through neo this and that faced buildings.

My host system collides with memory of a conference in San Francisco where I heard Lyn read less to herself than to us fastened to her page as if a cauterized shelf dance of wooden Russian dolls. 

Tonight we will birthday dine on Russian food thick with dark red vegetables and beef and noodles cupped as accompaniments to substance.

Diane sounds the way I was brought up

complete with visual art handed from eye to same denominations as if so many unshelved flutes.

January learns to begin to glow like winter vegetables into a clay pot and meld unlike moments and tastes that forecast depth as in perception.