I can't say a lot but I have a solid draft of a new poem, called, at least for now, "One Year." It started out 100 pages & now is down to 60. There's still some to fix or cut & some basic decisions about form but for the moment I'm basking. Here's how it starts:
Some speak of Rome & some of Paris
I speak of Sioux Falls & Spain
without the face I loved when young
nowhere is beautiful
there is no wall left to this village
thunder & rain
wet with wine
tomorrow we plow to the sea