At 4:07 I receive an email containing a listing for a 1972 Italian film I don't know and a promise to read Róbert Gál's On Wing per my suggestion to him last year.
At 6:00 I hear illness.
At 6:04 I am informed that my copy of Norbert Wiener's Ex-Prodigy has shipped.
At 7:00 I hear vomit.
At 7:08 I receive a link to a LARB article from June that opens with W.H. Auden's quote, "Poetry makes nothing happen."
At 7:10 I am hearing the steady sound of vomiting.
I think of Simon & Garfunkel as I lie still under the thin wool blanket. It is wheat-gold in color and does little to cover me on this white bed. I am careful not to spill the cold coffee as I lean over to sip. I keep listening.
I hear the drizzle of the rain
like a memory it falls
soft and warm continuing
tapping on my roof and walls
At 9:48 I text him a poem in response to his poem that he texted last Saturday.
Whole pieces of food squeezed up the way they shouldn't go. Coughing and moaning. I am not sure what I am hearing but it does not sound like he is whole.
I wish I was in my own bed.
At 10:41 I leave.
At 11:25 I receive a reminder for the theater magazine's launch event.
At 12:41 I send four pieces to be considered by a stranger.
I make him a second mug of bouillon.
At 15:00 I receive an email containing "Survival Stories." I send it on to someone else.
He closes the bedroom door behind him.
I am thinking of Sylvia Plath at a typewriter, Ted is gone, success is in the post for someone. I am picturing it raining in the night outside her window, I am hearing Paul Simon over her hunched over her fingers underneath her lowered brow beneath her slop-cut bangs held down by a headband. I can see her long limbs bowed around the desk, elbows like dangers, waist whittled to the belt's constraint, the skirt hem to her crossed ankles, fabric fanned in pleats softly around her desk chair, white socks folded over only once. Everything is in black and white and grey. Her fingers long and thin, perfect for typing, perfect for tapping. Soft. Continuous. Grey.
Bare fingers, them all. Grey.
And nothing in her typewriter.