I havent been near dead from my blood disease for three years
now, and I think I went out of love the year before that (after
twenty years) so nowadays I have nothing to write about. I sat
with a pen and blank page last night trying to stir up ghosts
but nothing would come.
Reading poetry I am thinking of looking to see whether Finneran's
Yeats is out in paperback. I am interested in the reordering of
the poems. I too like to write in sequences and
compose books out of them. Pity it wont come anymore.
My life is too settled.
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