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Thursday, November 11, 2010


Ami on the bed, reads Janet Flanner.
"Let's print our first books ourselves,
     the way Sylvia Beach did!"

Last night at Anthology,
a Super 8 festival,
the films were all very bad.
"My attachment to Super 8 isn't signed in blood,"
     said one of the speakers.

Well-made glasses are hard to find,
     I have a collection.

A slow dirty rain today,
some brown leaves hang,
from the dead branches of the tree outside.
I think it is a cherry, the one that used to bloom
with pink blossoms,
bedraggled leaves, shaking.
like a cluster of bats,
     flung felt.

The steam pipe muse
hisses and sings.
She beats the drum of the building,

Today is too wet
to go to the studio
She sings some more.
I want to stay indoors
     but I have an idea that won't wait.

Extended umbrellas are drying out
Veselka coffee this morning.
an idea for the names of our children . . .
all the boys will be kings, and all the girls,
   will get the names of rivers,

Euphrates Potter.

'Glasses', collage by Maya Potter.

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