tiferet shebhod
In the room that is, because it’s Sunday, more second bedroom than office, I, dancing, look at the Zoom screen, see that my arms are not on level with my shoulders,
that I am taller than I think myself to be. I forget about a client, having scheduled them on a Sunday without writing it down, and write down, unconfirmed, next week.
I go downstairs to switch washer into dryer; the thirty-minute cycle has one minute left for an unknown number of minutes. I walk outside to wait. The hammock’s web holds me.
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