It is not so much a hiatus as a reconsideration of the sources. Letters remain unwritten, books unread, photographs untaken. I stare at the ellipsis and wonder how to describe what fills that emptiness.
It is a shuffling of papers before speaking, unclear how to avoid the danger of distraction. It is the disorientation upon waking from an afternoon nap, the sun strange in the sky and angles on end. It is seven to three-thirty, the rich are rich, the poor are poor, but not so much or rather more than they claim. It is a view of bridges and rooftops, and leaves underfoot, and morning fog from the river. It is not a stasis, but the years’ sharp coiling of potential energy. It is what it is.