Writing alone at home, the only feeling I can hurt is the kettle's, when I splash water into its empty eye. But writing in public has its demands and today I didn't meet them: I was grouchy to one of the café staff. Sorry. I was anxious and sleepy.
After a month's break, Mom and I are still eating raw meat, it seems. Started a new poem, too, about her expression for "get to the point". Gazed out the window at a parked dog, and at the trees on the walls (in acrylic by Véronique Gay-Fraret Bottaro). Left to buy dental floss
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