So far I've written six Accident Sonnets . . . most of them while sitting in the middle of the living room and being interrupted by people and news. But I'm trying to make interruption a quality of the poems; I'm not trying to be deep or kind or eloquent; I want these pieces to be an accident of existence, to bump up against accidental feeling and thought, to assume their shape accidentally. All have 14 lines but some are narrow, some are wide, some are a combination, some have stanza breaks, all are irregular, none so far are rhyming. All have been composed during the insurrection and in its immediate aftermath . . . an accident of historical overlap.
Today is Saturday, and I am going to go for a long walk this morning, and then I am going to order seeds for my garden, and then I am going to watch the Bills game with the boys. Tomorrow is Tom's birthday, so I've also got a few celebration plans to finish concocting. For dinner: probably something with shrimp in it. I hope I'll also write another sonnet or two, maybe during the game. Football poetry could be interesting.
I hope you're hanging in, managing to keep yourself together, finding some way to cope.