coming back around

waking up through the sound of stonesaws everyday makes it still pretty cold hard but ever such small tendrils beginning to creep out, not like its really anywhere near spring yet but like, you know, just a couple of snowdrops.

by the time its my birthday there are always one or two snow drops.

i filled up the book I've had for six months and the end was exactly the same as the beginning but this time I can feel it kicking, see it gaining flesh and blood and teeth for fighting. it pinched me really fucking hard for every apology i made for it.


there is weight to all of this as well as that tricksy lightness. these lists are drawings not maybes. this work has a history and a structure in me and i know them well enough to scream for them now and if i don't no one will so what.what.what. am i waiting for?