How did it get to be Thursday and I lost track of the week, of days?
On Tuesday I heard the poet Stanley Plumly give a lecture on John Keats, a talk which emphasized the human in Keats, the fragile drowning-lungs which put an end to his days, despite his 5'1/2" size which, incidentally, was broad and built like a boxer. Who dies at 25? Keats did. In Rome, in an apartment on the Spanish Steps, in a room no larger than a closet.
I am undone by the swells and tempests of these days, everything sifting into a kind of place. That exquisite, necessary sorrow that has engendered all that I name to be beautiful.