Despite my good behavior and best intentions, I've acquired what everyone else has been passing around, some sort of bug. It started with a miserable headache but now has evolved into a deliciously feverish, hazy feeling. I sort of like it because it seems to activate the poetry section of my brain, which often lies dormant. Is poetry a virus? Perhaps. It seems to elude me whenever I'm thinking straight.
While I was tossing feverish all night, Gene was dreaming we bought a wonderful farmhouse out in the country, perfect in every way, except the bedroom, which was full of bees. The window had rotted out and bees had built a large nest. The walls were full of bee holes. Ah, Freud, get out of my husband's brain. When I want to share him, I'll let you know.
But now I need books. I'm not happy with the books I have. I've ordered a couple, but I'd like to reanimate Frank Stanford. Or something. Dear Sandy, Hello looks good. The Selected Edna St. Vincent Millay is on its way, but I'm worried it will be boring. I'm chugging through Above the River, but it's slow going. Creeley is frustrating me. I'm in a mood. It will pass. Everything passes. The trick is to catch it as it's going by.