I am making a little book. One-of-a-kind. Imperfect.
The paper is not the best quality. But the cover is black and wavy and silky, like a river at night. I like to touch it. Someone must have given it to me. It was just sitting in my small pile of notebooks-to-find-a-use-for. I think it’s been there for years.
The book is a record of…I don’t know what. Early summer, I guess. This one, specifically.
A draft? Maybe.
An experiment. A companion.
An excitement! Literally, I am getting up in the morning because I want to read and write poems, and turn some of that activity toward this book.
Who knows why I am doing this. Because I love doing this.