Three dots, pending text. My weather is all out of alignment. The housing bubble is loosing sleep, rapidly, and I’ve moved onto domesticated swamplands. The backyard is made of concrete.
My weather is all out of alignment. To explore the nature of rain I opened the door. For three days I lay blank pages on concrete, they collect the weather while I am out of the house. Testing what pages can store, what memories they hold.
To explore the nature of rain I opened the door because inside the workings of language clear vision is impossible. A crumpled line takes hold. You text to say you’re wasting your life at The Union, I’m watching the clouds gather. Predictive text fails to foresee. This site of turbulence is irresistible,
it’s in my belly,
in my weather,
like three dots, pending text.
Italicised line from Rosemarie Waldrop’s The Reproduction of Profiles: Inserting the Mirror.