I’m going to tackle some revisions. I can’t go forward if I don’t go back, I’ve decided, and back into poems that I love to make them better, stronger, piercing (I hope). I’ve tried to apply suggestions to the new drafts and I feel distrusting of myself (which is bad bad for a poet) it’s like trying to drink wine without squishing the grapes, without fermenting, without the plants, the roots, the soil. Maybe that’s a bad analogy – um, it’s like, crap, I’m drawing a blank. It’s gutting a house, the floors, the insulation fluff, the squeaky appliances and building back up – it’s polish. It’s a new hip. A filling. A new sole – so when I set them on their way again they can walk for miles and miles and miles and miles

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