|May 23rd 2011 - On the train from Dia:Beacon|
I learn that whales keep the coast to their right as they swim north. My body loses half a liter of water each day by breathing. The way skin opens when cut. I turn my back to you in sleep. Again the mountains in winter. Everything migrates—returns home. A place, an action. Bodies of water becoming solid. The quiet that winter brings. A hush. I think in grey & white. The still that becomes early morning—a weight held over the landscape. My bed a nest, the snow trying for the first time. I miss summer & how the days dragged. The warmth of a field, the haze between bodies. I go back to the same things. It is a habit, like the space between the door & the floor. A pause.