This weekend I traveled to Amsterdam and back. People, places and things were not where and what they were supposed to be, and yet everything was in its place.
I read poems with other poets and musicians as a packed room and Proust in a painting listened. I don’t remember the applause, but I’m sure there was some. Reading fills my mouth and heart as I become the words I’ve put on the page. Thus I realize I am the poem.

Today the sky is a color I can’t really call blue, although I can’t not call it blue, either. Tears are the same color sometimes. And in any case, the sky is spectacularly just what it is, this afternoon still the luminous splendor that met me this morning while still in my bed. Day advances, and sun and wind and I, although none of us are going anywhere.