Mark Cunningham and Mel Nichols

I watch the clock, red lights, children's scampering, the oven timer. Already I've forgotten the color of the shirt on the first person I saw today and the license plate I just followed for five miles. Before I went to wash my hands I was thinking of something. Now I can't remember what it was, and my hands need washing again. I'm convinced there's something significant to hold to, other than the residue of holding. I've noticed how cloud reflections on the pond's surface are sharper than the clouds in the sky. I set a pen and tablet by the bed, so the dream won't fade before I can write it down. Pond, clouds. What about air?