Well, you’ve been a riot, April.  Words have

been flying about all over the place and

settling in unexpected positions: under the

sink, in the sock drawer.  I found some

underneath the toothpaste, mixed together,

no sense at all to be made of them. 

They follow me everywhere I go. 

There’s a trail of poetic fragments stamped

into thick mud on the path where I walk

the dog – furled curled up like a hibernating

mouse, psithurism blowing about like a

dried leaf.  Literary madness.   There’s nothing

to be done but enjoy it.  To gather up those

words as I go, forming a Marley’s chain

of writing behind me, tangled, woven, untidy.

To place them in lines and boxes, feed them

and listen to them sing.