A November birthday

Figure/ground, and thinking about the gardens conjured by Bonnard:

Late night fruit:

the perfect weight in the palm of my hand.

Sometimes the present goes on and on

so that, months later, you realize that this sight is still humming along the wires 

of your body, and this singular hour has not yet come to an end, as if

the rules of time were suspended just for you.

Who will you be today?

Halloween reminds me

that we are all in disguise.