Remember what you wrote about connections? The uncanny coincidences that riddled your days, once in the spring?
I notice that the superintendent of the hospital was
called "Talbot."
Salt process, medical procedure.
I am uncertain about many things, but I maintain (as I am sure you know) a great well of dreams, none to immense to at least offer a concerted attempt at manifestation. Whence this faith in dreams?
(Perhaps this is not true. As I write this I can think of a few, at least, that I am not bold enough, or naïve enough to pursue.) And the days--they are the subjective consequence of the aperture of hope. Lately I am seeing the world through such a tiny opening, hardly any light striking the retina of possibility.
it keeps me up at night.
There‚s a gash in my side
from which sighs leak out
and organize at the foot of the bed.
My friend, I will be forty-two next week. But Doris Lessing has won the Nobel Prize in literature at what, eighty-seven? I am just beginning, no? I see her face, radiant, delighted.
Each day
is a blessing, incredible, exhausting. I take the days
one at a time. Seems to be the best way.
