Here's the first studio version of String Field Theory playing Sid Stutzman's song "House on a Hill." I don't sing at all on this one, just play fiddle. The band members keep remarking, "You're a poet. How about writing a song?" But I keep changing the subject.

Because today is bread-making day and writing-about-Keats day, I'll share a poem from How the Crimes Happened that doesn't mention Keats, although it does seem to mention almost everything else. As you can see, it would make a terrible bluegrass song.

Aubade

Dawn Potter

And what about the small eye, Walter?—

the leaves of grass you overlooked, winter

lichen clutching fenceposts, a draggled

dead squirrel in the snowbank, the red

letters of my name, serif by slant?

It was bliss you sighed, panted,

howled for: the View from Space—

big comet Walt chasing Madam Eos

across a streaky sky, old guilty dawn

tempting another kosmic shaman

to lurch word-drunk from the rafters . . .

oh, I grieve for every morning-after

groan rising from your sallow bed

as I fire your cookstove, bake your bread.