Poetry out of my neighbors noises. I listen late at night, and I hear a lot. I also hear a lot of their early mourning activities. My neighbor Kate let me borrow her old poetry. She's pretty darn good at that stuff. It's wierd, because I've got to hear much of the stuff that's in her manuscripts. Pretty cool.
He swims. He gnaws. He builds dams. He moves us with his intelligence and grace. He is the Wily Beaver. And he is here to INTUBATE us all.
Thursday, October 17, 2002
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