She's hot sun, she's wind, she's touching every hidden thing

In 2019, discovering Boston's Conley Terminal was the silver lining of a somewhat excessive errand to South Boston. I was so glad to know its name and where it was. We did in fact revisit it by day. I am now glad to know the harbor-dredging has proceeded on sufficient schedule that on Sunday it could be served by the Ever Fortune, otherwise known as the first of the Neo-Panamax container ships for whom the channels were deepened to visit the city. I need to find some safe way of seeing the new cranes for myself. It feels like a bad sign that I am beginning to miss the experience of MBTA buses.

I had not known that Holly Anderson died in 2017, of 9/11-related cancer. I never owned any of her collections, but she was best known for her mesostic poems which I first encountered through the songs of Mission of Burma and Consonant—"Mica," "That Boston Life," "Dumb Joy," "Feed." Gorgeous, fragmented snapshots, like scraps of papyrus from cities I had lived in. I hadn't known until her obituaries that she did cover design for Mission of Burma, too. I loved especially her work on Consonant, whose source poems were all in the language of flowers.

Last night I saw greygirlbeast for the first time since the late spring of 2020. On Zoom, of course, but it was still good. We have not seen one another in person since the late spring of 2018. I know it didn't help that I became so sick in the last quarter of 2021, but I feel in acute danger of forgetting what it was like to exist in the world.