Poetry saturation point reached lately, or due to feelings of general atomization, it’s a retreat to prose. Reading Selections from the Journals of Thoreau recollects an early college flutter, and here where an imminent t-storm shakes an awning, awnings of Arigato, thanks, a place, thinking of the daily stream of places as a novel of many thanks. A sentiment that offers one a chair, a mirror to sit beside, a neon outline of a fish, a view of a copy store across the street. Where the door is left open for a moist wind and the paper shades hung from the ceiling wobble slightly, thinking if stars could stumble there would be a resemblance there. Someone has already made a simile of it anyway. I am alone except for a man waiting to cut a fish, a starched version of the Brandenburg Concerto and a server that punctuates every phrase with “today,” making every fulfillment of one’s request decidedly temporal. It’s been too long, or seems, since the continuous present and I have checked in. The minutes remind me, made audibly similar by refrigeration’s drone. Me and Henry David Thoreau.