Traces.

Ask a question: solve by typing.

That is supposed to be my new writing practice: curiosity followed by exploration. But my questions have been hazy, flimsy, amorphous.

What am I asking? What am I trying to figure out?

The typing has been slow and hesitant, staccato bursts and immediate erasures. I write a little and backspace it away. The delete key prevents a history. There’s only a final draft.

There’s no more rubbing the side of pencil on a sheet of paper to see what was written on the sheet above it.

It’s as if the words spring from my brain, fully-formed. Ta da!

What did you want to write?

I wanted to write poems like deeply textured paintings: layers upon layers of pigment. Or peeling walls papered over and over, a pattern of roses smothering vines, vines smothering stripes, stripes covering plaster.

And?

Footprints in snow partially filled by another storm. A path walked again and again.

A half-clean slate upon which to make a mark.

A conversation between now and then.

Tangible word accumulations meant for more than a notebook — a box, perhaps — or a locket. Passed from hand to hand.

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