IN
On Good Friday, 1930, BBC announced, “there is
no news,” then played piano music, soft.
Inevitability only reaches certainty
in occurrence; I am not picking up the phone
until I am dialing, no news not news until
it is spoken. Between golden
and blue hours is some red minute, but
it all depends on day, or weather, or
place—an offering of here, and this, and for
you. The moon is the same size regardless
of where or horizon. My friend draws
for art class, says she focuses too much
on the body, how it moves and is therefore
most interesting. But the body can’t be
without a room, she explains. The danger of people
who just draw bodies is that they turn them
into the objects of their housing. Later, a child
notices sound from the radiator: “What if it’s
a bird? Or a human, stuck?” We keep
writing books with titles like The Invention of
Solitude and Don’t Let Me Be Lonely. I only
know my entirety from mirrors. Without
them, I am body, seem to end
at the neck.