the curling eddies of mist,
clouds tucked into the low
folds of knuckled hills.
title: The Folded Earth.
The residency will wind down in a couple of days. This morning, trying to find a way to gently critique poems of a man in workshop, not in his first semester, and I couldn’t help but wonder how awful his poems must have been before he worked with _____ (4 semesters, undergrad) & _____ (last semester, here). Wanting to be kind but useful. This is the hardest day of workshop because his poems contain so little in all their wordiness.
Up till midnight finishing my laundry last night. Looking for spaces in today’s schedule to nap. I don’t want to get tired; there are too many people coming down with colds. Persist, persist. Excel.
Sunday afternoon. Back to my room after a graduate reading. Roger posturing again, drawing attention to himself, complaining about the taping (not taping) of a reading. Rick leans back in his seat and murmurs to me, Notice all this macho stuff? He’s doing it for a reason. You’ll find out soon.
- Mailed 4 boxes of books.
- $60 cab fare to airport.
- Phone R.
- boarding at 5:25.
poem draft scribbled last night:
idea: local library co-op. What if several people who wanted to read the same journals shared the subscription price? They could afford to buy many more journals. How often would the journals be passed hand-to-hand? Central location? Check-out logistics?
Where are you going?
And the answer, unspoken, obvious: