mmcclxxvii

That the poem is a toy
with the structure of insomnia.
                 —Norma Cole

Even as I write
I am falling asleep.
Reminders of all the
things I need to do
keep cropping up,
yet I cannot stay
awake (even as
my mood drifts
downward again).
This morning I got
some nice little
punches. And
later, lunch with
Otto at Power
Source (it says
here “next door;
was good”).
Carolyn says
Suzy has
esophageal
cancer. Terminal.
How long now
has she lived
terminally ill?
It seems a long
time. Well....
Highlights of
the weekend:
saw Match Point
by myself. Utterly

excruciating. Gym:
4.3 miles at 6.5 mph
constant. And later,
again with Otto,
we step out to
Mezzanine for 

the Matinee.