JULY 1

Dear morning. You are my test! The lake water is warm on top and I am warm inside. Since the beginning of time my dad has been trying to tell me about what happens when two sounds get close. Like half an extended infinity symbol, split form its loop. Made of rope soaked in glue and living inside a hotel frame hanging exactly askew. I can’t write it; I can draw it. Dear morning. You are my chance! I have this and only this, split headache split second, for mouthwash, handwriting and hang nails. So when two sounds get close, I’m guessing it’s like lace, weaving or fraying, and every so often, an abrasive rip -- the telling tear. Since the beginning of time I’ve been watching my dad tell rooms full of faces about what happens what happens what happens when two sounds shake hands. I’m shaking my little foot. The ice cubes are melting, they vanish entire. The crowds on the couches are shaking their chins. I’m turning, I pivot, watching the field for flashes. Dear morning! It’s all coming back to me now.