The Many-Headed Hydra of Writing

So today I worked on my comps (WC Williams climbs the charts as my interest in Paterson grows, while Auden continues to plummet), exchanged some emails with new acquaintance I made through the Geek, worked on my chapbook, looked at some board game essays I'm working on, and wrote a little ditty I'll post here in a moment. I've been at this coffeehouse since 9am--it's now about 2:15 and I really want to go home. I have a feeling that I might be opening up some wine when I get home...

Oh, and Wendy's room is starting to take shape. Changing table and crib are assembled, though we have to find strategies for keeping the cats off of them. Right. Home. But remind me to post this week about how my thinking about ecopoetics is shifting a tad. 

I have a gamebox full

of dark glass

anyone can assemble

into a portrait

of beings so small

they refuse to be named

and pass through

to the molten heart

of the planet

where they discuss

their memories

of the sheep that floated

on thin, impossible legs

over long fibers

of astonishing green grass.