The truth is, I am very much affected by the wind. It's in the laurel and rhododendron. In my ribs and finger bones.
I am a wind instrument.
I want to rest my heart on the table. I want to minnow the cracks in the floor. All of these pretended certainties crying to be measured, my daylist, they have no fixity. They ask me: Is this so? and this? and this? and I can only answer: Maybe so, maybe no.