I open my eyes to see how the night is progressing. The clock glows green, the light of the last-quarter moon shines up off the snow into our bedroom. Her portion of our oceanic duvet lies completely flat. The words of the shepherd in Tristan, “Waste and empty, the sea,” come back to me. Where can she be? Then in the furrow where the duvet overlaps her pillow, a small hank of brown hair shows itself, her marker that she’s here, asleep, somewhere down in the dark underneath. Now she rotates herself a quarter turn, from strewn all unfolded on her back to bunched in a Z on her side,…

– Posted from my iPhone

I still am. Location:Old Plymouth Rd,Sagamore Beach,United States

At dawn Warren is on my bed, a ragged lump of fur listening to the birds as if deciding whether or not to catch one. He has an old man’s mimsy delusion. A rabbit runs across the yard and he walks after it thinking he might close the widening distance just as when I followed a lovely woman on boulevard Montparnasse but couldn’t equal her rapid pace, the click-click of her shoes moving into the distance, turning the final corner, but when I turned the corner she had disappeared and I looked up into the trees thinking she might have climbed one. When I was young a country girl would…