A small room inside a bay window. A single bed, a table and chair, and a sink. I could manage something larger, with more conveniences, but I could never match the view.

In today's mail, two poems by Henri Michaux, translated by a friend into English. One is about a flower, if anything. The other moves similarly.

Time to remove the flowers on the table. Time to replace the vase and the water inside it. Time to replace the table, make it smaller, allow for more room between it and the closet door.