I’m collecting ripped clementine peel and the hard, gold cages of champagne corks, throwing fire damaged napkins into the washing machine, pouring last drops of good wine down the sink, watching the sediment make its own language on the porcelain, listening to The Hissing of Summer Lawns for the second time this morning, and the bare branches of the blueberry tree knock against the window and remind me that I didnt spent enough time admiring its autumn foliage this year, that I ought to be more mindful of things that are liable to change — it’s so brief, that time of red and purple leaves, soon they fall to nothing and everything is sticks, everything is nothing again — and the old radiator bangs as it tries to heat the house, and cold air whistles through the cracks beneath the skirting boards, around my ankles, and my dog sighs as he repositions himself on the rug as if he’s sick of being in charge of the weight of his own body, just sick of it, and it’s Hanukkah, and upstairs there are people turning in the beds, and the beef fat has congealed into fat white pearls in the broth, and I click the kettle on, and it’s 9:30am or something like it, and Joni sings