I go out where the cold surrounds me and gather softballs, like eggs and then later eat soup.

I have seen this man around the dim winter ballfield. He had a golf club and was beating down the long yellow grass to find lost foul balls. He made a stack of seven or eight of them in the center of the diamond. I think he runs a blog on the minutia of military spending.

It woke up saturday and dreaming of art towns in the greater Europe.

It said, “I miss you, but what were we fighting about?”

She said, “PHo.”

It said “Feh.”

She said, “No PhO.”

It said, “What?”

She said, “Say Feh, but like it’s question mark.”

It said “What?”

She said, “Exactly”

It said, “PHe?”

She said, “More or less yes”

It said, “I love you”

She said, “Feh.”

I pass a man in the winter street wearing shirt sleeves. He is passing a Christmas Tree stand. The music on the tinny speakers is Greensleeves… his shirt is not green.

I’m in the morning window watching them in the wind scribble of streets.

Decorating the white tree, a black ball broke. They remind me of what I’d drawn the night before.