Despite my sleeplessness, I did manage to shoehorn myself through yesterday. Midday I took part in a conference call about the residency applications I've been sorting through, and that went well. The other judge and I had a fair amount of overlap in our choices, which was reassuring. Judging is always subjective: there's no way around it. I was glad to have been accidentally paired with a like-minded reader.

So that's one job off my desk. This morning I'm going to a yoga class; then I'll trundle home and edit for a while; then I'll spend some time with a couple of poetry manuscripts I'm mentoring. And then I'll cook dinner for my Valentine: lemon-marinated strip steaks, roasted Brussels sprouts, root-beer floats. My Valentine loves root-beer floats.

[Have you noticed I have a career in words? Isn't that the weirdest thing? Who knew it was possible? Who knew having a career was possible?]

Here's a small poem from the embryo manuscript. It appeared in Salamander a while ago.

Dooryard

Dawn Potter

Blue jay screams in the almost wilderness—

she Wants she Wants she Wants.

Nothing but flames will grow in this wind.

Back and forth the blind mice scuttle.

Their nation crumbles and thrives.