Dogs are coming in and out of my office, panting and looking around, circling the room, looking anxious. They do this when they haven't had a walk in a few days. They wonder, will it be tonight? Yes it's cold, but it's been two days! Take pity on us! We're dogs, what else do we have to live for?
I think I need bifocals. Reading while wearing my contacts has become rather difficult. But I could be imagining things.
I checked out a bunch of poetry books at the library today, including Olena Kalytiak Davis, Bin Ramke, Joshua Beckman, and Terese Svoboda. All but the Svoboda I've read before. And Kenneth Burke's Philosophy of Literary Form, which I know I will not read cover to cover but will perhaps peruse. Yes.
Max needs the computer to look up ESPN stats.
Here's a little Svoboda for you - whoever you are, reading this - from her poem "Pilgrim's Progress":
You run toward a light,
a cartoon idea?
Running forces its burning,
fuels its whiteness.
Such light capitalizes:
All Good as in a cafe.
Each lifted sole
is a moon left on.