from moments of incurable i-
dleness, my years of sorting
out the front from the back,
of a freshly laundered T, to
say nothing of locating some
seam to tell me whether it's
inside, out: what would I do
with all that time, to match
the useful recurrence of be-
ing lost for a few unhurried
breaths, before slamming out
the door on some inferior a-
genda? Would I apply myself,
once more, to the pursuit of
some higher understanding or
would I content myself to be
free?
Venice with The Salute
ca 1840
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