Dearest, I drove through the streets without recalling if I had observed traffic signals correctly. Also, I’ve grown weary from so much irony these days. It seems there isn’t any conversation that doesn’t use it, no space in the public sphere that doesn’t flaunt its shadow. It rained slightly— less than the weather forecasts predicted— but the chill cut through my boot-soles because I had not remembered to pull on socks in the morning. I was thinking of other things: like my regret at never having learned to use a sewing machine or make a dress from a pattern. And I want a pair of loose fisherman pants to tie with a long double loop around my waist, and I want to rig up a vertical garden planter on the deck where I might plant cinnamon basil and sage, dill, mint, mizuna lettuce… Maybe nasturtiums, edible gold and orange to lay on my tongue when I am feeling poorly. I am tired, so tired tonight. But whatever it is that exacts the daily tribute is such a hungry nag— and I have very little left to give. Go away, leave me a moment’s peace where I have no need to add or subtract from the silence, no need to grieve yet for what has not passed away.
In response to thus: tithe.