All packed--the bag is small but heavy. It's the books, including those I lugged over from California and didn't read and will lug back. Szymborska, for one. I was reading her when I left California four months ago and thought I would need her here. But I discovered other things: Geoffrey Hill's New and Collected.
My desk is tidy. I am looking at it, one of my children's school desks, from Ikea or Habitat, I don't remember which. A slab of white formica perched on some wire legs. A black lamp. The computer cord. Apiece of baskety with credit card bills, black-handled scissors and an orange fluo marker (same colour as the laces of my Nikes). The books I think I can get along without and a sheaf of old New Yorker rejection slips I found cleaning out a cupboard: "Many thanks for submitting these good poems. We read and discussed them with interest. No one of the group found a home here, but... . Best wishes, Alice Quinn." That's one stylish rejection. Handwritten, what's more. It's been years since I tried The New Yorker.
Geoffrey Hill in the morning, Calvino in the evening. Weight versus lightness. I reread The Baron in the Trees and The Cloven Viscount. Brilliant. Light. Funny and true.
I forgot. The blackbirds singing.