All of these occurences. They make me drunk. They make me stumble all over the place. My dead aunt reappearing. Something for a song. Saying something. A different sort of light. And then descending from the bank. Into the water. A hole where three currents meet, a different sort of light, a rainbow trout. All of these occurences. They make me drunk. They make me stumble all over the place. And now the breathtaking heat. Glorious.

For those of you who like news. How about I surreptitiously released an album last November: Persephone. It’s the first of thirteen albums. One for each book in the series that I am writing. Also, there will be a video for each and every poem in the series. Nothing is separate or new. The only deviation is presentation, whether print, audio, film, photograph. . . But none of this seems all that important. I mean, an announcement is not a poem. It is not a lake, a field, a cloud. But it is. So stupid. Elaboration. Please, could you elaborate?

I remember turning seven. I was so thrilled by life. About all the life to come. And this week, the catalpa trees, with their heart-shaped leaves, their white flowers.