After a long morning spent on the road and on the radio, I have returned home feeling overwhelmed, anxious, and inadequate, all of which means I should immediately go outside and muck out the barn or mow the tall grass or otherwise reconfigure myself and my landscape. I hate the way these demons boss me around. To quote Joe Bolton, the king of melancholy, "if poetry is a bond between / two hearts, it is a bond too frail," and this is true even when both of the two hearts are mine.