By Joy Ladin
Time too is afraid of passing, is riddled with holes
through which time feels itself leaking.
Time sweats in the middle of the night
when all the other dimensions are sleeping.
Time has lost every picture of itself as a child.
Now time is old, leathery and slow.
Can’t sneak up on anyone anymore,
Can’t hide in the grass, can’t run, can’t catch.
Can’t figure out how not to trample
what it means to bless.
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Friday, like Thursday, was quite hot near Seattle, and again we could only run one air conditioner at a time. So I spent the morning sorting photos and watching the Olympics, then uploading the photos to Google Drive and backing them up on my hard drives. We walked to the beach in the afternoon, after which I had to take a shower because it was so hot.
We saw the miserable end of the Orioles-Guardians game, then quite a bit of the glorious Mariners-Phillies game, around dinner and some chores. Now we're watching the last three episodes of A Good Girl's Guide to Murder, which has been pretty good but darker than I expected for a show based on a young adult novel. Some of the Star Trek collection at MoPop:
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