Perfect day. Movie-worthy clouds in clear blue, Johnny & I reading our poem-of-the-summer (Stephen Mitchell's trans of the Iliad) on the benches, nobody wanting any work from me, lying about reading, pictures in the mail of my friend's baby, an invite, Pete Spence's magazine fresh from Australia, The Last Kings of Thule on life in the Arctic, some old loved songs springing up in my feed ("Galveston," George Jones "Still Doing Time," Garnet Mimms, "The Last Roundup," "Truckin'"), plenty sleep, a sturdy kitchen chair found on the corner. You couldn't actually sit on the chair that was there - the back was broken off, there were spikes & nails sticking out, & one leg was giving way. We only kept it to scratch & stab our legs in the night.
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