In the middle of this rainy morning, I decided to stop editing and write instead; and while what I accomplished was merely the deletion of a single comma and the replacement of "said" with "saying," I still feel happy to be back inside my own head. Not to mention that I've just noticed that this paragraph is starting to rhyme--

In the midst of this rainy morning

I decided to write instead,

deleting a comma, adjusting a verb,

and mucking around in my head.

(There's some slapdash doggerel. . . . I should have left well enough alone.)

I'm continuing to read Krishnapur but have also started Donald Justice's collection Night Light, which, as you may recall, I recently bought at the Bangor Goodwill for 99 cents. The first piece in the collection, "Orpheus Opens His Morning Mail," is a prose poem, a form I generally mistrust. But Justice is, on the whole, such a skilled formalist that I can't accuse him of simply not knowing how to handle a line break. So I have to accept this prose poem as purposeful, though the form still makes me grumpy. In any case, it does have one line that I like:

"A note addressed to my wife, marked Please Forward."

I'll keep you posted on anything else notable in the collection as I make my way through it. Also, I'd be interested to hear your take on prose poems. Do they exist? Or are they really just plain old prose?