I’ve been writing a little this week.  Soon, I should need a new ribbon for the anchient typewriter that I use to write drafts on.  I’m not sure that I can get one anywhere, though.  It’s a Remington from the fifties, manual, of course.  I turn a little helpless when I draft.  I feel confused by the actual world.  The other day, I got to working on a poem at lunch at work and forgot to eat. 

One poem in particular is a puzzle that I’ve been toying with.  Its lines shift and drift every day.  Every run I go on brings it a new stanza.  my brain is full of words.  It’s like a pool and they’re all floating and diving and adjusting.  Write, write, write is all I want to do.

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