Three groups of trick-or-treaters knocked at our door last night, and Chuck was overcome with the excitement. At the end of the evening he flopped on the couch like he'd been chasing rabbits. Halloween! What a holiday!

This morning he seems to have recovered his equanimity and has resumed his usual purring spot against my left shoulder. The wind, which was whistling all day and all night, has died down to a steady breeze, and a coral sunrise is romantically staining my neighbors' white vinyl siding. It looks like the perfect day to talk about Whitman.

This morning before class I'll get out for a walk or a bike ride. I'll marinate chicken for dinner and deal with laundry and dishes. And then we'll begin the big Walt experiment. Can spending two weeks with "Crossing Brooklyn Ferry" really help us carve out a messy, surprising long poem draft? I guess we'll find out.

This class is among the most complex I've ever designed: lots of talk, lots of writing, plus lots of participant interaction, which can be tricky in a virtual setting. And it's long: two weekends on zoom, with a gap week between, when the poets will be working together without my interference. I'm excited. Rereading "Brooklyn Ferry" this summer blew a hole between my ears, and I can't wait to find out how I'm going to respond to our conversation about it as well as to my own prompts. With luck I'll dig a real draft out of this experience. With luck other people will too.

Nonetheless, the class will be a marathon. That's the long poem way, always chasing us up Heartbreak Hill.