H O P S C O T C H

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2002-08-07

The comfort in cupping an orange red garden rough tomato in hands to place gently on the scale across the store. Time there wants to be to me as it is to the coffee beans or the gumball machine or bags of crumpled charcoal. So many days have tried to converge into silence, but always pulled back in by opening doors, ringing bells, shivers in whatever form they may register.

Summer is always so out-of-practice. Simple pleasures only in cliche form or sometimes my own of diving repeated into the pool or trying to convince myself the stale humidity isn't so made. Logic isn't so logical, only poetic leaps from one idea to the next, but no synthesis. Nothing coagulates--only hopes for fall.

It's how every summer is, spent waiting for autumn, hoping all these empty images tumble in on each other. That this really isn't it.

A small trip to Vermont then ricocheted back to Ohio. And then to Vermont for the big move. It feels like something's starting but I'm not sure how it's sinking, what is it's shape. Limp fingers and a faint cloud in the chest.



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