Sleet is ticking against the panes . . . a gravel-whisper passing from roof to door to every window, a sort of Jimi Hendrix effect, as if our house has been piped for quadrophonic sound.

Being dumb, I did not lug the trash to the curb last night, so that blah chore awaits me. But I'll enjoy a cup of pre-sleet coffee before I force myself into the void. I slept well and am still pleasantly squinty and sluggish, with the good sensation of having filled a few notebook pages with messing-around thoughts at last night's poetry salon. I was glad to be back in the room, after a few Omicron-weeks in hiding. We played with kennings and opposites, and as you can see (gravel-whisper), my fingers are still in that land.

Today I'll be reading manuscripts in the morning, shifting to editing later in the day, baking bread in the interstices, making tofu and seared cabbage for dinner, and wishing that Tom didn't have to drive in this storm.

Here's a poem from the new collection . . . and a cover--

Petition

      Dawn Potter

 

Notice is directed to unknown father, whereabouts unknown.

 

Twitching in a patch of daylight, gulping

Cold grits and water, tramping through dust.

Dogs forget to bark.

 

Motion is submitted, for we have no way to identify unknown father.

 

Chipped front tooth, penny in pocket.

Two shoes.

A stare the color of Neptune.

 

We believe unknown father is living at: completely unknown.

 

House of horrors, house of blues, house of commons.

House of usher, house of cards.

House of the setting sun.

 

It is hereby ordered:

 

            In court, as in dreams.

 

Unknown father, appear.

[from Accidental Hymn (Deerbrook Editions, forthcoming)]