“Days/
are shorter, more limpid, are like a kiss,/
neither dry nor wet nor on the lips/
that sends a light shock in rings/
through all the surface of the skin.” (from Going, James Schuyler)

I need to mate my phone with my home computer to bring here some fuzzy pics of my lunchtime peninsula, how I always forget, my thoughts too peninsular, that work is a ten minute walk from this- is it man-made, a spit? This is where I sat with a marching band audibly distant. This will later be inserted. A silent campus bets you the lines are down at Mt. Everest. I bet it is quiet at the buffet Everest. I haven’t heard these kind of waves in months, more than one, several harmonicas. Are these waves just now, a buffet progression.