I worked on a new poem last night, and copied out Rilke's "Seventh Elegy," and listened to a baseball game, and stir-fried cabbage, and thought about my friend Donna, who had swept in mid-morning for a cup of tea and thus cheered me up hugely.

Then I went to bed and slept and slept and slept. I dreamed that the actor Parker Posy had bought a farmhouse down the road and was painting strange patterns on the floors. I dreamed that I told a mean old lady that I was a Democrat so she sneered at me and refused to eat any of the brownies I'd baked.

I woke up at 4 to let the cat out, and then I went back to bed and slept and slept and slept some more. Now I am groggy and mystified. Why did I need so much unconsciousness?

Leftover rain is dripping from the tree limbs, and the grass is covered with wet red leaves. I am drinking black coffee and trying to re-enter the world of the living.

The little poem I began is not too bad, but a word is evading me. I have the sensation that there's a hole in my brain where that word should be.