Morning weather collects us into its pattern,
sky a wet color-field painting. I have a little
energetic force I carry with me. Once, time
was linear but now it has holes/loops/circular
grooves. I’m just thinking, playing around with
ideas. I’m out in the weather with my baby and
my mind. This private life is made of difficult
solitude that no one seeks to solve—baffling
memory portals, states of invisibility. Through
trial and error we learn to live inside, play tricks
with time. For a while, I float away with my ideas.
Baby makes a desperate bird sound to bring
me back, gives a look of encouragement. By noon,
his socks are missing, the sun beating down.
Now time has markers, signposts, well-planned
routes. We will be forced to choose between
them. I have this idea about immensity. He
wants me to walk backwards through time,
retrieve small white socks from holes in the ground.