Up at 4 am to see moon on ice. Can't write. Reading Cate Marvin, who reminds me about rage, something I buried, but barely. Can't even find my D.A. Powell book (hidden in the couch?). Am preparing a presentation on "difficulty in poetry," because someone told me my work is "difficult." Ha. I'm feeling as simple as a slug today, hoping god isn't holding a salt shaker over my head.
Happy day to my Irish friends. I wonder what they think of green beer in Saudi Arabia?