May 1, 2017

Lost the actor playing George to an equity gig in Maine. Lovely Daithi takes his place, me feeling secret joy in it. Last day of classes, ramming through Modernism, reading the last of what turned out to be a disappointing season of poetry– much self-revelation, only three bothering with much skill. But those three have a future. All is well with one more semester. What, again, with the students who sat and did nothing, who appeared without so much as casting a shadow? One student wrote one poem (a fair one) and said nothing in class. What to do with her? Deep rain. The satisfying plop of a fat frog in the water when I pass the pond.  Orange and scarlet roses in bloom. Rejections one or two a day. . . . never does the rage slacken (you’d think it would after constant bombardment), never do the nerves stop shuddering.