from Megan Martin: No place to say from

The body in the now in the sun, this isn’t a place to say from. 4:16 pm I want the practice, and also the perfect piece, but what really do I want, other than for it to be, other than to be made by it? If I hadn’t come to the yard, down here to the concrete slab beyond the porch where I couldn’t see, there wouldn’t have been daffodils. If I make the yard, if I make it a stand-in for the too-windy page, if I make myself come down and sit in it, if I record its daily happenings—I have no reasons, other than desire: therefore in the yard I grow bored. Antsy. Without voice. (All my feelings run out once I begin the action of it.) Hmm. This was supposed to be—I was going to investigate a practical solution. It’s—I think it’s that I don’t want the page here in the yard where the not-yard also drifts. There isn’t trash here like I know lives on the other side of the fence (our street is busy). Perhaps I want to make a—to make anything less-old-seeming—or am not interested anymore in making a yard, or do not believe in it, or do not believe it is possible. (I buy books and they pile up and I can’t stop buying them.) I will finish that project and it will bore me. It’s not far off from how I meant to write to F., who I barely know, way back then, when their partner first got ill. The litter out front doesn’t matter. The yellow flowers creeping over the fence will keep on until they aren’t. A little chunk of tooth chips off out of nowhere. I enter a grove, then a groove.