February 21st, 2014

The single tear that dropped two nights ago moved so slowly down your cheek
that you were able to catch it with one finger and hold it against the light coming
through your window. This marvel of water and refraction stopped you for a
moment and you gazed at it, the mascara mixing with the salt, and the whole
thing still and held together by surface tension on the tip of your finger which you
rose to the light through the window. This is like something, but you're not sure
what. These are all notes and sketches anyway, these last three years and this one
too. No metaphor need be perfected yet, and later, when you really write, you will
come back to these years and this one and these cuttings and mine for the things
you saw. Today you have collected certain memories: the deep breathing of the yoga
you practiced, and how it felt very real at moments, and very farcical at others, the
waxy rind of cheese, a documentary on Rachmaninoff in which he speaks in ways
about composing that you feel, at moments, about living, sediment at the bottom
of a wine glass, and an entire harvest of snow that rises as vapor past your window.