May 21, 2008

The distant whirring sound is cicadas. It’s an alternate year, not the great throngs, but enough to make high music and leave substantial, decorative corpses on the ground or head down in the water gardens.

In twenty minutes the lights go up on Edward in New York. I can’t stand the idea that I may never see my cast again. I can’t stand the idea that any thing at all may come to nothing, no matter the energy and goodness behind it.

The night black iris.