two bart trains rattle across the overpass. and i, under, with the quiet in me now, with the deep calm of snow that cannot be waded through. no snow here. the deadlines and the debts pull closer, i bare my sharp tooth at them. hold on, bigger demons today. soft hands today. soft body, a pink entity buried in the bath under hot water and edith piaf. a fever travels heat stains down my chest and legs, down my neck. foreign currency, that book i've been meaning to read, ambivalence towards social movements which do not seem to be choosing much of a direction. the scholars keep to their books and their hilltop cities. come down from there, come down.

to bed.

niagara, on.
hydroelectric power. horsehoe falls.
made of mist, maid of the mist.
jump in a barrell. the japanese tourist lost.
the lazy fall of immeasurable pressure.
samuel de champlain, paul kehr.
annie edson taylor goes over at sixty three and lives.
28 million tourists per year.
fall, keep falling.