After a day of fog and dense humidity and brief spattering rains, I woke this morning to coolness. It's Friday--time to drag the recycling bin to the curb, time to make chicken and vegetable soup for dinner, time to read Blake and go for a long walk along the cove. Also, time to edit someone else's fat book, which means that those last couple of items on the list might not actually get done.
I've barely written anything lately, other than last weekend's Shelley essay and these daily letters to you. But I did spend an hour yesterday copying out Blake poems. I'm really grateful to Teresa for inventing our distance poetry-reading project. Every other Monday I have to be prepared to talk to her about poems: it's on the schedule; I need to make sure I get my homework done. If you can find a friend to do this with, I recommend it highly. Two people: a shared reading project: one regular probing conversation. Writing has been difficult for me during this crisis, and reading Rilke and Blake with Teresa has been a considerable help. It makes me feel as if I'm still a working poet: maybe not writing a lot, but nonetheless thinking hard about the art and the craft.