equinox

~ originally written with a black sharpie fine point on the clean side of a used piece of white hp everyday copy & print paper which has since been recycled.


a handful of words, elvers
in a net, glassy and precious
a handful that is not enough
for the telling—some springs the wind
hollers louder, soft flesh of mud
shivers hot with sun—worn skin of ice
loosed and the vernal land speaking
equinox, conversation in a language
measured dark & light, death & life,
emptying & filling, dormancy &
awakening, garnering & gifting—
eyes lift from march squalls to april
reaping, time's calculations printed
gathered in infinite sheaves born of trees
their numbered days cut and pulped
packed/tossed/reused we recycle a life
seek what is missing and in the seeking
discover the sought after slipping
through our hands, a twofold loss
closed eyes open we are conceived
open eyes closed we sleep and in silvery
fragmented gossamer swim away.

somersaults

was the core of me starving—layers ripped, peeled—losing hold, cold? like a floe
fleeing, outward bound?

(as yet unknown realm/unanswered questions.)

a small spot appears at lunchtime while i hold a spoon
and stir fresh vegetables in a pot, the beginnings of soup, a broth
of oxygen bubbles, a steady steam of spice feeding the space
above my head where shiny silver pans covered
in a moist venous glaze hang from wooden
pegs along a beam. a small spot i ignore.
a small spot. i ignore. a small squeeze on the left side of my chest.
it's really nothing at all. it grows and shrinks—
smaller, bigger, smaller, to almost nothing,
almost nothing at all.

i imagine fibers elongating—thumpbabump—trying to inch their way out. i think,
absurdly, of valentine's day, the throb of love, the center and shape of it—fat, red, oozing.

(who made up that blood is blue?)

blood is red, red and burning, and it plays a satisfying game of survival.

cars flow along the on and off ramps on forest avenue, disturb
accumulations of litter that bite the curbstones near the bent
forms of pedestrians who battle the winter wind. a man hops from one foot
to the other clutching a sign: homeless please help any way you can. 

i walk into the ER no problem, fill out a few questions on a clipboard.
symptoms: ghost dance/soft pirouette. nurse hands me a thermometer,
pumps up a cuff on my arm, pronounces everything normal, says the wait
won't be long. his earring glitters under the energy saving lights.

i lie on a gurney, chat with the docs. i feel good. i never see my monitored
numbers plummet, the lines descending behind my head. i never think i am
a goner, but my eyes see gray. everything turns to a dim rush
a blur of people doing their jobs. later that night i learn my husband cried.

this flip of a thing—this filipendulous detail—decides to tumble
on to monday, its eyes ravenous for tuesday, rolling rolling each day,
each day for a long time after that, never stopping, always onward, its
movement undeterred by the dark uncertainty of an indifferent spit of road.

shapeshifting

a quiver, a shiver

first one, then another

cast away on the floor.

a careless—a thoughtless—

peeling of garments dropped 

from your long, hard limbs—

can't you go slower, make

the moment last?

at my feet the heap grows 

my blister stings

my shoulder aches

as i scrape the rake

across the ineludibility

of change, smell frigid

winter in curling woodsmoke,

squint my eyes against
diminishing days, search

for summer unloosed
in the remnants
of shapeshifting hours.

what happens to my bones

the ledges near portland head light. august 2012.

Soul. The word rebounded with me, and I wondered, as I often had, what it was exactly. People talked about it all the time, but did anyone actually know? Sometimes I pictured it like a pilot light burning inside a person—a drop of fire from the invisible inferno people called God. Or a squashy substance, like a piece of clay or dental mold, which collected the sum of a person's experiences—a million indentations of happiness, desperation, fear, all the small piercings of beauty we've ever known. —Sue Monk Kidd, The Mermaid Chair

what happens to my bones, my eyelids, my nails, my feet, my sinews, my lungs.

what happens when the remains of my existence are tipped by familiar hands

into the sea—this is what i have requested, this is where i believe
i belong, in the place where it all began—what happens then.

a question?—it is beyond that. a method, a transaction in my mind,

negotiating between what's a beginning and what's an ending-that's-not-an-ending.
white ash like coarse beach sand, calcium phosphates and sodium and potassium
momentarily suspended, scattered, adrift in the soft memory of an awakening

rivers    beating    crimson    body    rhythm    remarkably like this sudden peace

percolating salt spray, the grains becoming smaller and smaller, infinitesimal like
iodine, a journey of light and heat.

i am i    am   always am.

a simplified rarefied form, turned
churned, being delivered—there is no reaching, no

yearning. in this landscape sandpipers walk over me, crabs pluck at me

rocks and wind and water and sky are in me, under me, beside me,
through me. i am being reworked by the sculptor, carved into forms
like folding breath, distant thunder, remembered scent, the strata of time

blue, white, yellow, orange, red slipped into a small forever

calling forth this love, this ecstasy ablaze
in fiery display. countless pinholes of light

blinking in, then one by one, blinking out.

nothing but this

in the afternoon light i walk past the fractured greens that appear mirrored below the
dock. bleary pictures go unnoticed as charts and gas levels are checked, gear, food and
beer are stowed. the anticipation of spending hours offshore is wide and measurable.
tide fills and spills over eel grass and mud, driftwood, bent, broken, knows
no other path, only the urging of the sea. it'll pull you with it if you let it.

i will let it. even if i don't, it can't be stopped.

the glint, the way over repeating wavelets, where you go where
you want to go, dark, unseen, plunging straight and deep and sharp,
water purled in halves, fourths, eighths, sixteenths, a formula
that confronts what is known and leaves the unknown for who knows
who to dissect. will people always live in separate universes? will they always be

divided?

the wind grabs, the waves demand. before i know it, what was once

part of my world is lifted, toppled

blown into the sheen, murk, and mold of forgotten sneakers,
doorknobs, bottle caps, favorite hats, cellophane, wire, mesh, nylon
rope, fenders, bumpers, bud light cans, lampshades, pieces of rubbermaid,
shopping carts and baseball caps, all sunk, saturated, slurried
caught between this place and that. above

my head the ceiling of light is so bright i feel it will blind me
if i rise too quickly; bubbles, tiny fish, plankton float
away, up and up, cutting a swath of graceful motion
through the water. i cough, i sputter; my eyes sting.
now i've been there, now i know.

make a note in the book of restless days and salt:
what we call life is what we've come back from,
scathed, our eyes pried wide open,
unsighted no longer.

what we might eat

this summer has been one of extreme comings and goings. we leave for days at a time. we return home. the house fills with family. they depart and more arrive. then the house empties itself out again. we load up our days—on the bay, at the mountains, in town, in the backyard—so they overflow in an endless tide of activity, and through it all we must, of course, find nourishment and be fed....


in the morning i wonder what we might eat
during these dog days of summer—
it's too humid for casseroles or baked potatoes
or simmering stews. in the heat those foods
seem unappetizing; they'll have to wait
until it's cold enough to put our sweaters on.

it appears to me to be a day for something crisp
and cool—a day for salad—and so
i purchase—since i no longer grow vegetables—
a few tomatoes, cucumbers, peppers
& other things that may form a salad.
i glance out the window toward a large pot on the sunny

deck and remember the basil plant from texas
that arrived by mail for mother's day—
only three inches high in a miniature terrarium—
now it waves tall and lush in a small breeze,
a few tiny holes visible between the leaves'
veins where bugs have snacked.
i pluck a—bug-free!—handful

still hot with light

and move inside to wash, peel, chop and toss,
a flurry of movement—streaks of color, flying hands—
fingers like winged creatures fluttering through
a door toward something just beyond the opening.
i listen to clink, clink—salad servers and forks—chords
rising ecstatic against pretty blue pottery plates,

the cadence of evening voices

tendril notes of family gathered 'round a table,
crunching, gnashing, chomping by the shadowy
light of melting candles that flicker
and weep wax.

but outside in the world of bright, unwavering moonlight
i know there is another kind of comfort, a small silence
demanding nothing, not even to be fed. an infinity
of stars over us, an oasis of dew on the grass
under us, all of it moving, going somewhere, as beetles
alight on sweet tender growth, pause a moment
in between bites, and confirm that it is good.

circle

my hands, my pulse, my sea breeze, sudden sneeze,
    never mind, once again, row the boat, finch's

song, dragonfly and silver sky, garlands of neem,
    meandering stream, quiet grace, gra-mere

lace, lock of hair, eyelash kiss, single pebble, feather
    pillow, sand, arugula, skin, tagua nut, tulip

shell, harbor bell, azure shimmering like a dream, sunburn
    rash, lightning flash, looking glass, beanstalks,

trip-trap bridge, jabberwocks, bowls of peas, following
   seas, snapdragons, pickles, pistachios, then

it's breathe, breathe, hold them tight, close the circle
and gather in all those things that could have been.

my life is a tote bag

my life is a tote bag, carefully packed up and ready to go, constructed
in sturdy canvas featuring an array of bright, optimistic, well-mannered
colors and trims. it gets the job done. it is open to suggestions. it is broad-minded.
i pick the portions of myself that i need each day and haul them off—

post office, town hall, recycling center—butcher, baker, candlestick maker—
i make tidy rounds wrapped, tied, boxed, bagged, zip-locked, compartmentalized
to last, sealed against fear and doubt, tupperwared and prepared for any contingency/
catastrophe/emergency in well-made natural fibers with contrast-color handles in

your choice of regular or long over-the-shoulder length, woven from premium short
staple American cotton, a variety that's inoffensive—sharper and cleaner and kinder—
more tolerant than others available on the market today or yesterday or the day
we fell into an inevitable impasse and you told me to stop analyzing—there's no fixing

this frayed existence. you announced that's it and retreated behind a stonework
facade of denial, an effigy of hands waving away truth, dissatisfaction inevitably
guaranteed. you who vanished through the door remained unavailable for comment,
never to be disassembled into any container bearing either the living or the dead.

magnetic

she watches NOVA, he watches football. she prefers tea, he prefers coffee. she is short and blonde, he is tall and dark. she sighs over red sunsets, he sighs over red ink. she loves modern art, he loves vintage cars. she takes note of new flowers, he takes note of new technology. she makes friends easily, he makes friends cautiously. she likes the heft and smell of a real book, he likes the [nonexistent] heft and smell of a kindle. she makes plans in advance, he makes plans at the last minute.

she thinks the weather is perfect for working out in the yard, he thinks the weather is perfect for working out at the gym. she is thrilled by incredible words—how about rosanna warren's from new hampshire—he is thrilled by incredible numbers. she stares at her books, he stares at his iphone. she's messy and leaves clothes and papers heaped in piles, he's tidy and never leaves clothes and papers heaped in piles. she was raised a fresh-air-and-forest country girl, he was raised a smog-and-pavement city boy.

but when all is said and done, they are both at home, sitting beside each other in the evening, two opposites attracting.

lola —after the painting by picasso

the title is incorrect. it should read lola —after the painting by ruiz, since that was his name until 1900 or so, but who would know ruiz? i didn't—later he liked his mama's name better hence the change. lola, the younger sister, a shy girl already marveling at her older brother, already knowing he was going to be big, real big, a sensation. of course this is not the painting of lola from the painter's early days, but you have to understand it was the blue i was after from the start, it was the blue i liked, a deeper blue, deeper than the timid blue surrounding lola as she sits on a white chair (or is it a bed?) sideways to the viewer, pale pink layered sleeves and a long white shawl bunched near her neck, draping into her lap, her blue lap, her head a profile of dark hair pulled back in a bun like her mother's hair minus the streaks of gray—maybe she's holding something in her tidy little hands which rest quietly on her lap? i can't tell—eyes focused on the golden evening lights in the darkness beyond the window. i'm sure she is daydreaming about that boyfriend of hers (she's such a typical teenager)—why didn't he stop by today?—she is in a bad mood (too much grouchy pout) while pablo paints, more blue, more blue, sit still will you? along with blue and white there are bits of green and pink and i think it is sad, melancholy, the way the colors combine and the whole thing looks like the painter was outside looking in through a rain streaked window, or maybe he was standing inside at his easel but rain kept getting in the way, dripping through a hole in the roof—oh the loneliness of the pale blue haze, a washed out weariness like grief moldering the scene. lola looks as if she might melt off the canvas any minute—watch out, don't slip on the slick paint where her chair and dress and mouth and breasts collapse becoming startled geometrical shapes straddling a wet pavement coursed by neat black boots, tiny buttons running up the ankle, and staring into street lamps lit over an hour ago during dinner when lola grumpily mumbled pablo would you please pass the salt?

bullseye

all women have their idols—sex, song, silver screen, sports, take your pick—
predictive symbols of youth, reminders of the good old days—let's order another drink, 
light another cigarette, dance to another song, saturday night in the bars days.

in the 60's girls cried and screamed for the beatles—ed sullivan,
stiff, struggled to announce four names. flash forward: 2012: new
english and irish boys on the block during matt and ann and al's

time slot on today fill the plaza with girls, girls, girls, cellphones held high a chorus
of burning love, while hidden, peering from behind their daughters' shoulders, mothers with cellphones but smaller voices sing their own songs

the notes wafting between the tall buildings where i escape
to discover my own idol who fires ping right on the bullseye
i don't have time for a pop culture god

a media-made celebrity chirping thumbs-up-likes

i'd never fall for one of those

give me instead

                   a gritty wordsmith i can sink my sharp teeth into

one at whose unlocked door i can hear
come in! and here i go pressing the button

                   up, up, up

where i linger inside the glass walls of an examined existence, a scheme

of finite dots, sketched pointillistic humanity, tinctured downsideup hope
capturing, losing my invisible slipping sliding self—
it is then, when i am again at ground level, i notice on my shirt

a smudge as assertive as punctuation, incisive wound
of an ending and a beginning, token of dried blood
nodding where the arrow met its mark.

lawn games with epicurus

as we were sitting in his garden (called the garden)—for once it was just epicurus and me enjoying the pleasures of the place—the athenian grass receptive and vellum soft, the flowers untamed and straining, everything pleasing and delightful, we found ourselves having an argument—good natured, of course—about whether to drag out the croquet or bocce ball set or, perhaps, badminton? horseshoes? that morning we failed to agree so we decided to skip playing games. instead, we continued sitting, munched fruit out of a bowl, and engaged in a chat about this and that when he happened to mention how an endless, spirited colloquy became the spirit of the garden.

it was a friend, he explained, who planted the seed of an idea with him, and he liked the idea and the idea took hold—maybe you've heard the philosophy? it's all about bringing pleasure to the inner life, to the mind and spirit, by softening conflict and worry (he called it fear, i call it stress), and enriching life by living it prudently, honorably, and justly and by being magnanimous and moderate in all things—and he told some other friends and they told their friends who told their friends—you know how it goes—and before long it had spread like mad.

(he admitted he really didn't get how this could have happened—talk like his does not offer a quick fix.)

now he had so many people hanging around the garden, seeking peace and happiness, wanting to engage in deep discussions, that he often felt like he just wanted to shoo them all away in order to simply be alone to read and think, you know, the way he used to on samos.

but, he continued, i really don't mean it about my friends. i'm just blowing off a bit of steam, that's all. he had this little habit, when he was deep in thought, of slowly rubbing above his eyebrow with his garden-rough fingertips and then bringing his thumb and index finger down to his earlobe and gently, repeatedly, pulling on it, as if massaging away a nagging intrusion into the flow of ideas.

while i lingered with him he told me friends are important and, tugging on that dear earlobe of his, he whispered many of them have discovered my philosophy can be a therapy for life, a therapy to heal the soul. 

he handed me a cherry as bright as a shining garnet and said i have learned this: i am content having little—on such a diet even a small delicacy is as good as a feast.

i think i get it—or at least i'm trying to, anyway. pare off the excess. be happy with less. tone down worry to achieve the inner tranquility of a life well lived. and don't forget to take a look around and enjoy the garden once in a while.

or something like that.

~ the garden image featured above is certainly not in greece, but rather it is the garden at jane austen's chawton cottage (june, 2011) in hampshire in the uk. my husband patiently put up with my need to stop at quite a few gardens and historical sites. after all, isn't that what husbands are for?

crocus

i observe she is always the first to arrive
in this season of awakenings, this season
of erupting life—edgy, eloquent, forthright—
surrounded by her siblings
she stretches upward aiming for the sun

and i am struck by her couture
by that tiny body flashy with outrageous color
showing off a slim white form from which spring
long green sleeves and a smallish purplish hat
festooned with lavish orange embellishments
that make the statement here i am.

i can tell you the reason for her prompt appearance—
well before the steadfast daffodil
and the exuberant forget-me-not, never mind
the prim lilac—is simply the advantage
of her location—as they say, it's all about
location, location

location on a rich hump of sunny dirt. but don't
get worked up—that's not the whole story.
that's not what's making the dirt even better.
can you imagine, better than compost?
rather, it is this: her nether regions are securely
lodged, along with fistfuls of worms,

in the hottest spot in the town—no, that's a lie—
take away town and add yard—
in the soil directly on top
of the simmering sludge
within the slow-cooking
septic tank in the garden.

and if she could express her feelings
i think she would pose a riddle
in such a way that neither dictionaries
nor encyclopedias nor all human knowledge
could help solve it—

leaving the answer in something immediate
in something, i imagine, she, at least,
has intimated all along.

seed

back when a black sky awakened with the first smudge of the first orange light and continued to brighten under a newly formed sun, in an era before many words were spoken, and then later when the sentences uttered were few and guttural, and then way beyond that when, at last, there was a babel of languages—none of which could possibly be comprehended today—it flew across the land.

it careened past fiefdoms and serfdoms and dukedoms, danced over terror and famine, knowledge and expansion, sprouting famous and infamous people—kings, queens, generals, empresses, tzars, dictators, poets, prophets, tyrants—and all the lesser folk no one has ever heard of or read about in a book.

on mountains, deserts, plains and jungles it settled and lived, grew strong and insistent, lifting and spreading itself at every opportunity, seeping like mist, rising like vapor in and around every gaping crack on earth.

it flowed river-like along currents of time—air and ocean currents, too—and, most recently, sailed on wooden ships, steamships, and liberty ships and cruised on jet planes. it arrived in this place, right here where i stand on the porch in the bright, warm sunshine eating an apple and pushing a stray piece of hair out of my eyes. tirelessly it traveled and then presto!—became the me of me.

this, an almost winter

this, an almost winter, beyond the window glass a little white, yes, a little cold, yes—a lot bird chatter

and streaming sunshine—but no drift, no crystalline glare slamming my eyes, no climax of foul weather reportage and shut-downs, no excitement with hulking plows and their forceful rumble and snow rising up like great fortress walls. there is none of that, there is only a meager crust from small morsels of flakes

sprinkled stingily over these winter weeks, packed down, icy ugly, pocked with a porridgy thaw turned to cinder block refreeze and back again, no fun only hazard, no man in the yard with a carrot nose, button eyes, a rakish grin, only hungry chickadees and titmice sitting on high branches hammering away at sunflower seeds nipped from the feeder.

fluffed feathers, a twitch of tails, and me, puffed plumply in my own (hardly needed) down—they, surprised by the sight of me, me surprised by a lovely shiver of shells descending to earth—in my own thrilling forecast this momentary storm swirls merrily in my heart—it is winter after all.

nests

a clock ticks cracking ice
shadows & keyholes stamped on the walls.
i hobble a memorized route
along the corridor on a foot swollen—
puffed like punched-down dough on
the rise—inert, useless.

running mice in the frame of the house
are pulling threads out of my old socks
& reweaving them into cushy
nests, winding the colored strands in and out

of tissue tufts, hair, dog fur & dryer lint for their cold
hairless newborns hidden deep within the timbers
behind the piano. i wait for
no one, go nowhere & dark shapes
fall away as the sun squints
& i open my eyes & yawn.

salty breathless love

solitary beach—for now. winter vacation. full moon, setting. chilly.
hoodie zipped up, hands stuffed in pockets. walk quickly to stay warm.
prevent the nippy air from wiggling through the outer layers, creeping
crawling, sneaking in. dawn. orbs, orbs, orbs.
one orb setting, another rising. panting now.
warming, yes. stop. take a picture. this is exactly—
untouched, no tinkering with nature—what the lens saw:
surrounded by reds, a melted butter sun pouring out a bright path
across the dark water as if to say this is the way.

stoop. pick up a seashell, a cross-barred venus.
then others: lightning whelk, angel wing. mysterious forms
touching my fingers, what's lying at my feet now, and tomorrow—
here there is no time, only tide, a low full moon tide—
horseshoe crabs, starfish, heart-shaped cockles, elegant yet
exuding elemental salt, pungent as morning breath and body odor
year after year left by the sea, they, no longer alive yet beautiful; they,
bearing the story of the waves, the sand
—they, breathlessly telling.

riding with the contessa

italy. october 2011.

somewhere in the october distance
in a patchwork of nourished rows and turning vines
a reflection curves, spins
off metal, penetrates my eye
comes at me, alighting from the misty golden
heaven of hills—olive, basil, rosemary, cypress—as if
i am staring at a some kind of priceless painting
capturing a wild, refractive, and bold medieval light
shining past centuries and on and on and i shield my eyes with my hand
and i am alive and pressed with a hefty gladness
a gift, an unexpected prize that comes with the day
this welcome day, how much there is of it
in the moments before drumming hoofbeats west of bologna
near casina announce a cloud of warriors i can feel in my chest
riding, riding toward me away from sky and falling sun.
i see her at once fearlessly leading the ranks of men—
matilda of canossa, la gran contessa—clad in armor
her face riven with pride and lust for the chase
strands of her long brown hair lifting, unfurling
like airy banners waving triumphantly
with each rise and fall of her horse's hooves.
i smell the beasts' sharp sweet sweat
hot breath sucked in and out of power machines
hundreds weighted with rippling muscles
all knees and heels, hocks and fetlocks
gouging the fields to seek an enemy—to repeat the humbling
of an emperor who had groveled penitent in the snow—
soldiers bearing swords and daggers protect the quattro castelli
the apennine stronghold, the golden road that curves through
the mountain pass to matilda's doorstep.
block the teuton onslaught! through the rush of bodies
the spraying saliva and blood of men and animals
i hear cheers in the twilight—witness another october....1092—
glorious shouts of victory fly up through the vineyards—
henryVI is beaten!
fling him back across the alps
from whence he came!
i stand alone
instant silence dropped
on this primordial bed compacted with these fallen bones
planted in soughing rest, deep and light—wistful, wistful—
powdering the earth, oh soft, soft.

the eloquence of woolly bears

it is what i feel when the darkling sea spreads
the flow endearing itself to me, deep inside
my veins cool, my bones warming, as it presses in there.
my awareness aroused, it rises to the surface
cascading over the edge—a rush out of the gloaming—
pooling at my heels.

the words we utter are the entirety of what we are—listen
to the sound—but they are nothing, really, measured against
the eloquence of black-striped russet woolly bears shuttling
across the path giving deafening praise to hibernation

or

nothing 

compared to the way the red maples fill me: those trees
covered with purple, the ones next to them pink
over there, yellow, and these at the end
resounding red and orange, the serenade
of their saffron-pumpkin-lemon-pomegranate leafsong rising
up and up. no mere tra-la-la—how do they manage that?
aren't they all the same kind of maple?—but wondrous
notes marked in the spaces within
the sweet lines of air scaling the sky.

i am so small.

it is what i feel when i realize this: if i walk
through a forest, stop in a bright clearing, scatter flower seeds—
any species foreign to the resident bumblebees—i will become
a witness to the infinite cycle of existence.
it is no secret—
bees will visit each flower that unfolds herself
explore every one, even the strange ones.

always.

i am left speechless.

portrait of sally

i asked "in what universe could the humanity, family integrity, and honor of slave owners count for more than the humanity, family integrity, and honor of slaves?" my answer was that we americans have lived in that universe since the founding of the country and have only recently begun the process of moving beyond its boundaries.     annette gordon-reed the hemingses of monticello 

the portrait of sally, a remarkable piece, should begin as an outline
offering barely a glimpse of a woman-in-the-making—first
a teenager in london: abigail adams murmured to no one in particular
sally's nature is good, and the parisians smiled
nodded and offered tres jolie to look at—while tom took her
shopping and carefully selected outfits after she was left alone
to be saved at sutton's house: inoculated, feverish, muttering nonsense.
not to worry—sally survived, no visible scars.

the paint wet but already fading by the time she arrived back
at the mountain, his home and hers, to pose for 38 years.
sally, the much younger half sister of his beloved dead wife—
resembling her always with her fine carriage and creamy skin—
her loveliness a perfect mixture in the palette of dusky rose
and lily—reigned, a faux wife, her crown shattered, trodden
under the boots of dark-flesh traders, her humanity strangled
by the noose of southern law but revived by her man
the king of monticello.

still her portrait hangs incomplete.

it's difficult to see you, sally. you've become a smudge. i'm sad
to say the picture of you is missing from museums—
in this universe it's starkly nonexistent—stolen
from us before a light sketch could ever be drawn
with this bit of charcoal on this scrap of paper.

but elsewhere out there it exists, sally, i know it exists.