Footnotes Mostly

Notes it turned out we didn't need to take. Wind as the night deepens. Fealty to dusty corners, muttered prayers and other signs of low status. Imagine a childhood not defined by an obsession with reading, i.e., imagine not being saved. Lobster claws, reticulated pythons warming their eggs, morning sun on the savanna, long walks with blue hills everpresent as the horizon. Stories the locals tell about what's at the bottom of the lake. In a dream I invite Margaretha Haverman to come view Mary Cassatt's Lilacs in a Window and Haverman asks politely "what's a museum." A few minutes after six. There was a time in my life when learning about disruptive coloration would have led to a weeks-long effort to correlate the effect to writing but not anymore. The sound our shoes make as we unbuckle them, how we sigh laying down, how we see ourselves seeing ourselves in starry skies. Ever looking back. Fires, more and wilder than you can imagine. We are footnotes mostly, helpfully informing a larger text, we are not at all our own creation.