I spent most of yesterday writing, which means that I ought to spend most of today not writing. But I did get a lot done--three pages of a draft that seems likely to go on for a long time. Unexpectedly I am finding myself writing not only about Mr. K but also about the nature of fear. I didn't know that I needed to talk about the nature of fear, but the poem has decided to make me speak. It's so strange how the act of writing can itself take control of the subject.

Meanwhile, obligations float up and cling to the edge of my thoughts, like frogs' eggs in a vernal pool. It seems likely that they will hatch out and swim into the poem. This is a silly simile, but for lack of a finer one, I will let it stand.