12.15

A student today let me read a poem in half-draft, a mind spilled out stasis-wise, piece-meal. It reflected itself and read differently the more you looked at it, and I wanted to climb inside and see how its elbows felt when they moved. I wanted to be its author, and I suppose that's a high praise for anything from anybody, but it felt pretty low coming from me.
Still, I'm going to try it someday when I'm not so envious, and I have more time to be proud.