I'm going to try some newish poems.
You know, I have this bad practice as a writer,
where I finish a book and then I lay off for a while,
and then I just want to take a break.
And then, sadly, I have to start all over again.
And I really have to start all over again.
So I don't know.
I should be like Laynie, who just writes all the time,
and it's always so good.
So I'm calling these new poems, for no better title
at the moment, SAD poems, as in seasonal affect disorder
poetry, because it occurs to me that a lot of poetry
falls under this rubric, right?
Like "shall I compare thee to a summer's day"
or "now is the winter of our discontent",
so it's a venerable tradition.
And some seasons are different, they're
not just-- this one will be apparent what season it is.
"Jumbotron".
So far, the new year has real likeability.
Many of the pieces await their instruction.
Think of an entire puzzle at the ready to mobilize.
Every aspect of change is now open for business,
and some social contract of quote, "maybe this time".
And if I am only a patch of blue sky above the corner
of a small house, that's cool.
I am awaiting development in this uneven landscape piece
by piecework, we're living history.