This day starts disoriented with dominant feelings of grief for something not lost, remembering something not happened, and dread so still that it backs into time as time flows forward, carries blurred body edges past me, streamsmeared ahead, coloured scent on slow backwind wrapping my sides as I am standing, heavyleaning on the dread past darkening behind. And I will see whatever comes in the distant near; it is superimposed in the corner of the laundry room; on one hand I stand looking into that corner as it contains my future; on the other hand I sort the loads and set the machine to its doings.

A photograph of a roomful of strangely assembled objects, seen through a window with reflections of the afternoon sky.

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