As you know, if you noticed, I missed another Friday Notebook. My notebook has become a not-book. The pages hate me. This is because I’m spending all my energies on old poems, proofing pages for Thread of the Real, flirting with the gone rhythms, the tropes obvious or arcane, the little turns in the path no one knows about but me. No notebook entries, no. And besides, there have been no compelling poems from others at the moment (though some are in the offing—that is, in the stack by my bed—I feel sure).Read More