lost 24: cherries

extremely high resolution observations, a dinosaur with feathers. observe the holes in the substance of the brain, more or less filled with boots stockings comb towel ripe cherries shirts shoelaces a scanning electron micrograph JPEG of Cyclotella stelligera. out of this world asteroid mining by robots and/or the library robot that learns (how strongly did you co-operate, correlation zero) to spout the  X-rated repartee of a coarse-tongued flirt. don’t overthink it – press 9kim8jn love the metal the rusting commodore or falcon skin-thin tires chipped windscreens glistening curves of delicate peelshine. let’s make this about the cherries shall we? auxiliary telescopes in the atacama desert region of chile – these two are not the droids you’re looking for. a japanese friend out in my woods cutting up a fallen birch stories of fetching water for grandmother’s iron tub making fires under it for a bath. the map ballpointed in tiny characters, beaver pond, plan  for six cherry trees never sent

top photo: Shai Ben-Shalom, underneath photo from website of Steven Pressfield online

Yesterday was bath day for Desirée, my beautiful feathered tyrant:

which merits a few lines of a poem:

le Tub



she has grabbed each plastic toy from the bathwater

flung it away from


                                    le Tub


a contemplation of the calming waters

one last suspicious

head swivelling check that no one’s peeking

that her towel is to hand


then dainty as a Renoir or Degas nude she steps

into the shallow glass bowl

            now the other foot –

                        she lowers herself into the inch of water

                        shivers as her delicate parts


                                    leans forward to immerse



                                    woman bathing…


I will read her this poem by Amy Lowell; obviously they are kindred souls


By Amy Lowell 1874–1925

The day is fresh-washed and fair, and there is a smell of tulips and narcissus in the air.
The sunshine pours in at the bath-room window and bores through the water in the bath-tub in lathes and planes of greenish-white. It cleaves the water into flaws like a jewel, and cracks it to bright light.
Little spots of sunshine lie on the surface of the water and dance, dance, and their reflections wobble deliciously over the ceiling; a stir of my finger sets them whirring, reeling. I move a foot and the planes of light in the water jar. I lie back and laugh, and let the green-white water, the sun-flawed beryl water, flow over me. The day is almost too bright to bear, the green water covers me from the too bright day. I will lie here awhile and play with the water and the sun spots. The sky is blue and high. A crow flaps by the window, and there is a whiff of tulips and narcissus in the air.

From, Women’s History






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