*

Hot, it is so hot
A hand finds a hand

Dry heat, the window
cracked – a hand finds more

The morning beckons,
and beckons, and beckons

*

Note:

Algorithm, I say to myself without moving my lips, I want this to be dark and black, I want this to be the early morning far from the city. But I have to be specific, reiterate the darkness. The touch draws forward in the mind when the sight retreats. After lighting the stove on the boat, I found my memory had become so receptive that every moment sings to me now like a crystal glass I have struck with a small sounding stick.