Confess

The egomaniacs in art are as the salt in the sea. But we are the waves. As the waves. That strikes me now as an egomaniacal thing to say. For the sun is shining.  But we must speak as the ocean. We do as the waves, putting salt in touch with other salt. Such friction. It is funny work. I was walking along the ocean one morning this October and a rose had washed up in the night. It was bedraggled from the waves, all that travel. Her terrible, lovely hair. Entwined in a white grosgrain bit of string. There must have been a wedding party at sea. I visualized them barefoot. I visualize you barefoot. Always. This tells you more than I wish to confess.

(addresses are dreams)

(singing) ..."fancy poultry parts sold here..."

(photograph for Mother's Day)

This is from back in the summer, taken with an Ilford disposable camera.

I love this particular configuration in my little town.

Madonna and Child (child aged perhaps four years old).

They were preparing to cross the street and he was afraid So she waited for him, with him. A century or so.

I like the strange aureole that formed.