So obsessed am I with feeling
That I sometimes lose my way when I step free
From all the sensations I receive.

People walk out of themselves into
the river. The surface
is a sound you can’t hear.

I’m going to make a poem out of nothing.

Today was mixed—some flurries, some sun.
Skied into woodcut snow scenes, then home,
discussed Flaubert with neighbor, the one

At 47, Hope's driven to find her feet in construction.

                                I watch the big bird from
an evil star, honking across the sky. Every day

Supine on a gurney below the Acropolis tacked
to the ceiling, my right leg slowly turning
cement, I'm an accidental artifact of Pompeii

Beside my bed the lamplight glows: a glass base
filled with shells containing
news of ocean. Each shell encloses what the sea

The wall is massive, of solid stone, hard, finished;
yet it oozes The wall is smooth, new and old, durable,
and yet it is crannied, and through the mute fault drips

Heads up, false friends use familiarity as camouflage. 
In the source language deciduous might be confused with apathy, 
but nothing could be further away from desidia than the timed impermanence of leaves.