I am busy all the time, but I feel as if I have nothing interesting to say to you. I know you don't want to hear about the War of the Mice.

On Friday I finished editing a book about Oppenheimer. Next up is a poetry collection, followed by a book about uranium mining, and then (as a break from the atom) a book about Audre Lorde. It's been a long time since I have been so booked with books.

Today I plan to vacuum and launder and weed, finish reading Frost Place graduate projects, and look at the moon. Have you seen the moon lately? On Wednesday night, when I was standing by the side of the road, watching a one-armed man tow away my car, the moon was a curl of orange peel. Last night, as I sat on the couch eating whipped cream and raspberries and staring out the window, it was a cap, pale and fog-laced.

I hope it doesn't look like this:


The Waning Moon

Percy Bysshe Shelley

And like a dying lady, lean and pale,
Who totters forth, wrapp'd in a gauzy veil,
Out of her chamber, led by the insane
And feeble wanderings of her fading brain,
The moon arose up in the murky East,
A white and shapeless mass.