So I have turned to short stories for their
mini-catharses. Finding some new—any
emotion. No that’s not it.
Movies do this. But the Paris Review...
Sick day. I am at Trident reading
American Letters & Commentary.
Now I’m at a laundromat. He’s in
Portland. How green is the blackbird?
The 39 bus behind me. Some clouds
and pale blue. I shook John Wieners’
hand and met and chatted with Gerrit Lansing
who has heard both Stevens and Eliot read.
Moving to San Francisco in three
and a half months. Somebody is running
a vacuum cleaner nearby.
