Accidents are the Cosmos

Dawn comes. I am a notoriously bad planner, through no fault of my own. What did you expect the clouds would do - genuflect? 

Too cold to walk to the river so I just stand hunched over in the side yard, pretending to pray. The call of familiar crows. Nothing is absent but one does have a funny habit of noticing. Sell to me please, insist on me please.

This is art and other declarations that ruin the mood. Rats gnaw bread left out overnight, what's the word for that. Accidents are the cosmos in a way that says our desire for order is not without limits. Legalized antipathy. Boredom man, boredom.

Buy some! I get tired of the ghosts, tired of the demons, even the angels don't seem to try very hard anymore. Where in Vermont we lived and worked and strangled our voices trying to say something about happiness.

His hands trembled on the hurdy-gurdy, a factor not of nerves but late-stage alcoholism and oh how we loved him. Building stuff like boats and guitars. He makes a conscious effort to exclude the hemlocks from his poems since it's obvious they're doomed and - oh wait.

Yet another broken plate, yet another reference to umbrellas. First the birds, love, then the light.