The Mesocosm

Two sounds in the house lately: clanking barbells and electric guitar behind garage and bedroom doors. J.’s mesocosm failed; he flagrantly excused himself on the basis of gender, as the gathering of mud and spores, weeds and worms for “nurturing” is not the métier, apparently, of boys. Dear A., I myself was quite taken with the idea that we can bring a world to life like animated toys, a sealed jar sustaining frog and fen. So much for that. It’s the fall equinox: the radio broadcast Vivaldi twice. I know the change by the slant of light— slant of light + concerto. The clocks quietly gallop. Maybe it’s the promise of achieving equilibrium, under tight conditions, of carbon and oxygen in give and take. I’m in dire need of —what to call it?—magic. I worry that Zoom is ruled by djinn that filter out the wavelength of love and so

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