6 February 2017

When I say “darkness,” I mean absence of knowing. Last night's wind came in gulping gusts. In the dark the dog was afraid, Radhika said. On our walks she startles to the wind's Leaves on Asphalt sonata. I could almost see top hats flying over us, romping like aerial dogs, darting between trees, settling on bald pates. Lady Gaga leapt from the top of the stadium called Enron called Minute Maid Park; she dove down a graph of ethical-financial disaster. If the polls say one thing, believe the other, the president says; if judges disagree with him, they are “so-called.” Soi-disant was my favorite French hyphenated word. House full of old photographs, he writes, after his wife so suddenly died. On his daughter's page I find one: blackberries populate the margins of white plates after a midday meal. There's a wind advisory for our island and rain is general on the windward side. Plump are its drops. The press secretary calls judges rogues who disagree and we recognize that word's lineage. Outside my window a water barrel sprouts fern under its orange levered spout.

--6 February 2017