signs of spring

A beautiful day.

The sycamore trees outside my window starting to sprout little burgundy pre-leaves.

Walking through the Fulton Mall this sunny afternoon, a couple: her hand tucked in his back pocket.

Men-of-the-hoi-polloi addressing me wolfishly, although I am 45 and look tired.

Many tulips (for sale).

Street revellers in shades of green in the very Irish Windsor Terrace.

Jay St. station smelling inexplicably like the Paris Metro (dusty, sweet).

Unrelated, but notable: Extraordinary reading by Larry Price at the Poetry Project last night.

Oh and, last weekend Anselm gave me a copy of Have a Good One. The pages smell of cigarettes: traces of Dana Ward?

Up too late! My movies did this to me! Must go to sleep.

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