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I’m getting used to the whole No Kids thing. It’s okay. My friend Katie said she’d ” been pulled over all day” about this picture, and I can’t say anything about it except that it peels my skin off too:


This is the most devastating art I’ve seen to come out of it yet. I hope this one takes off. I wish I had the energy to poem it. Tomorrow.

What else? We’ve been cleaning. I’m getting used to the feel of this house when it is empty. One thing that is happening since my kids are going to be with my parents is that we are missing father’s day. I’ve told my folks not to tell my kids that Sunday is that day, so we can have it that next week.

Tell me:

Tell me, tell me, there’s no doubt that the snare catches my big inhale and I catch you in my breath to make you tell it.  Take it in, take me, in these seasons for Ecclesiastes, ah Miracle, ah wrong tone, ah Shostakovich, ah Shklovsky, ah prima dona, ah legs walking, ah hinges pressing in benediction. How will you weigh us, in the end? The monumental keeping, the tiny fire that holds us up in a big erasing, didn’t you hear the oldest ones tell us to neglect the now because it will be forgotten, didn’t we forget to tell it?  Ah bitsy pieces of wood, splinters of you raising hopeful against the northwoods night, don’t you wish for slipping kisses in the wool, don’t you just wish for the approval, big gesturing, in brave eyeing, in each picture you will send next.


kay…Happy Friday, poemies.