Thanks, friends, for the kind words about "Arcadia, 1939." The title does a lot of heavy lifting in this poem, maybe too much; and as I was telling my friend Baron, I know the piece teeters on the sentimental line. Yet, of course, why shouldn't poets be drawn to writing about pleasure, not just about pain? And if you want pain, you can look for it in the title, and in the Yeats allusion . . .

Yesterday was a busy poem day: I had one poem published, another poem accepted for publication, and a third poem rejected. A little taste of everything, all in a single email update.

Meanwhile, I toiled away at an editing project, and cleaned floors, and ran errands, and filled out Christmas cards. I made it through my exercise class, and I baked lemon-blueberry scones, and I read a chunk of John Fowles's novel The Maggot. I hung laundry in the basement and scoured the kitchen sink and thought about the class I'll be teaching in February, on narrative poetry. I drank tea and fiddled with my phone and worried about the future. I let the cat in and I let the cat out and I considered my incipient manuscript and I wondered why my glasses are always so smeary.

I lead such a predictable life. Except that I have no idea what it's leading to.