& other mistranslations

listening to: anais mitchell
drinking: sencha slivered with fresh ginger

the afternoon sun dissolves bodies into silhouettes & shadow puppets that hover in a vague haze, approaching, leaving, diverting; i am always the center, always the moving unmoved. walking through belleville, down rue du temple, i must now rely on sound - singing 'slow moves,' i move slowly to figure out this echo location system. in blindness, i come to understand the sixteen other senses that evolution led us to forget.

ile-saint-louis sighs sleepily underneath the tourists on this sunday afternoon. i sigh too, in a morning-stretch kind of way: i still haven't quite shaken off the dew of deep-nap-dreams. the unfettered blue sky is a canvas for airplanes spelling secret, ephemeral messages in criss-crossing patterns. look! it is headed straight for notre dame! it is writing something to do with believing in the weather, someone hazards. the forecast calls for sun, all sun. (my eyelids have been unneccessarily heavy: i am incorporating homemade cinnamon lattes & naps into my daily schedule.)

every sunday morning i wake up & think, "yes, but why do i want to go to the market?" but every sunday afternoon i return, happy & fruitful, with bulging bags & creases on my fingers: my eyes are bigger than my biceps. i question my routines & my desires but am always appreciative of the small things: the way the antiques man does his crossword, the couples constructing lists based on the avocado crop of the week, the sarrasin woman always silent & stoic & alone with her crepes, & the way that at least one person every week tells me to smile.

my neutral face, my cooing countenance, does not signify the kind of pout that it presents. i am not sad! i am just caught up in thought! in imagination, in transforming world to word! if i were constantly remembering how lucky i am, where i am in every moment, you would not be able to pin me in this world of pink afternoon light.