types of books

I pick up a book,  branch with pink flowers. It was in the yard. In the yard for years. It was in the years. It was there for years, there in the yard. It was in the yard for years. Go on, go on. Look. The wood sorrel flowered yellow and the tree branched branches, it pinked. That’s how we knew it was spring,that’s how we knew where we were. I mean, where we are.  The baby is coming in summer and it’s not quite spring, not directly spring, but the yard turned to sorrel. Suppose branch doesn’t mean branch, if it ever did. Little chance it changes orientation: bed to door and door to yard, the lamp faces nothing (except the book). Direction wavers, you say north and I ask left or right. In one city, it was east to the water and in this city it’s west to the water, but I’ve never been south to the water. The baby is coming in summer, should we turn left or right? The next and best is not the same as the new. Did you also feel it kick? And days later, nothing. Please more. Please more branches in the vase because the smell of old water is nearly enough, is nearly a bath. In the yard and past the pink branches, ocean. The yard joins the ocean approximately. The yard nearly oceans. No, I didn’t plant the tree nor did I tend to it. Put salt to it. Put salt to it and then the yard is really ocean. I pick up a book, a branch, a dead fish, anything to put to my ear—