I could be reading Jhumpa Lahiri for the second time in the middle of the night, if reading is to be in someone else's life.
In the morning I'm reading/weeding among young birch trees, pulling out the strangely satisfying square roots of field woundwort, yellow nettle roots ripping through the upper earth, new goosegrass, already confident, nascent perky ivy.
At the end of the day I'll read the New Yorker in the bath. How much writers' archives go for even while they're alive.
Reading is the model.
The day aligns.
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