thunder & rain--it's storming in chicago as i write. i imagine the lake building, the winds tearing through the tree limbs. near my open window, a small dog is barking. i'm thinking about filtering, about how all the goods of experience turn into fragmented lines in my poetry, about how those lines are not supposed to be individual but are in a way necessarily so. many writers flood my mind—lope de vega, neruda, dante, keats, bernstein, ahkmatova. i have so many questions.
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