fog above bridge

Woke up hearing Arthur Dove's painting, "Foghorns."

It was outside in the bay, and right there in the room.

Turned on the light , bumped into the glass of water on the bedside table. Not a good start.

Still dark out.

No New York Times yet, so flipped through the new issue of Lapham's Quarterly (Fall, 2011). Too dense too early.

Sat in the chair downstairs, waiting for an idea to come to me. An idea never came.

Picked up the manuscript of poems written by a woman M.D.who works with people who have had strokes and lost their ability to speak--and writes about it. Let her do all the work, transfixed.