There is clean air and birch trees whose
leaves are beginning to turn. To contact you
or not—I am trying to decide.
I no longer understand the terms of
our intimacy—if it could even be called that.
Ours. Intimacy.
Jenny’s father serves me pickled
herring on bread with butter. I will buy
today’s issue of Le Monde. I will make various
decisions, all pointing me in one direction or
another. There is an attempt to get closer
to you, and then there is the rest.