Or probably not. So much resists the pen. So little remains available in words.

Seven years in wilderland suffices. My planets shift from their lengthy retrogrades, groan like great gears braking to change planes, heaving their teeth anotherwise for different angles to engage.

Autumn already is here with its weird light and uncertain airs. I almost can't stand it, the strangeness, when I go out to examine the sweet potato vines and feed the goldfishes and murder the wasps.

That longing that saturates one in the fall. Or maybe only me.

This is the time of great change, now until January. Everything in my life shifts now. All will be magnificent. That much I know.