Trying to understand this account, as the sun tilts past the center of the sky.
(I am understanding.)
And I am alone in the living room, with the vacuum and several pairs of
Robin Blaser is out there, somewhere, doing the work. Or he is dead.
I've eaten too much something, and my head is the sun, tilting toward
the trailer park.
Repeat and contemplate, or simply smile, slip into several pairs of shoes,
and greet a ghost or two.
(This is an anecdote.) (This is an anecdote.)
Ugh. Robin Blaser has become his own scribbles, and the living room has
disappeared into language.