By Jennifer Harrison
Nothing is in its place. I alligator roll
through the dumper, come up
with sand in my mouth
the clean grit of summer.
These grains, sharp crystals
irritate the skin
until everything fluid
grinds in the groyne of my mind
a pocket, now a fracture
swept apart by imagery.
Black Drummer. Black Cod. San Souci Dolphin.
On a good day, Mnemosyne sees
clear to the trilobites ten fathoms down.
Nights are for busters, the bruising of rain.
How easily Stingrays camouflage
themselves in the sand, she said later
striking out for the channel, forgetting her name.
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I'm trying not to be cranky or boring at least one day this week, but it was kind of a boring work day and I don't have much to report beyond being visited by my cats (who would like the heat on now that it's below 75 degrees) and neighborhood cats (who would like their butts rubbed). I had a minor disaster with a bottle that shattered in the bathroom, requiring a lot of cleaning, and I broke a bracelet so I turned it into two new bracelets with wire, glass beads, and pliers.
Paul now has the same cold I got from Adam, so we had soup and bread for dinner, then we started to watch Thursday night football but didn't really care and really what was the point of watching the Dodgers-Cubs game after the third inning. So since I'd been subjected to so many sports, I figured I should subject Paul to one and made him watch some Yuri on Ice. He even mostly paid attention, kind of. From the New York Aquarium in Brooklyn:
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