I have avoided the press and it shows. I have not published anything. I come home to watch the walker walk up & down a narrowly green lawn.  I strum sometimes with a burgeoning purple that goes brown. My collapse, once assumed inevitable, is narrowly greening. So it’s so. I think I can report Being pregnant is over. Being postpregnant is over. It’s over-running w/ green legs and green shoes and hair. It’s twirling her hair in my tiny hands that are hers. It’s over the toys & times I pick them up I’m over it I don’t know when I’ll know what to do on Sunday. The Sundays are fierce and Bright. Blank days that used to push me in but now I walk and thinkcheck  the list on the ground. time & length of nap.  # of vegetables. size of poop. diameter of anus. servings of fthesh ftoots  How much left of it: day, light, times she is full & dry, When should we go home and heat the beans and refill and change and lay her down and buy the bell and listen to when it rings