Pollen Sneeze

Today I'm feeling sorry for myself. It's cold and windy California and I've had the stomach flu twice in less than two weeks. This is not a lament. The Acacia is blooming in the front yard, yellow balls of pollen line my doorstep. I'm thinking of vegetative cells: pollen grain walls overtaking even breath. I will have to wash my car. I want to lie down next to these sentences. Maybe this will happen tomorrow.  Tomorrow I will clean the surface markings of my life. It should take all day. Perhaps I'll prefer to vomit. I'll keep you posted. Tomorrow I'll make an outline of my life and fill it with scraps, empty water bottles, thinning, ridges of my notebook, and pores that may have once contained thoughts— elongated apertures.  Tomorrow I shall handle the landscape as a scar. I fear that when I sneeze I will not stop.