Rush Hour

A proper Irish winter morning. Woke early, just after 7, after roughly a five hour sleep, more refreshed than usual (perhaps I've been sleeping in too long) with part of a dream still clear in my head: I was reading sheet music (the words anyway), a song by Hank Williams. But the words weren't exactly words, more like sounds, somewhere between insect and human. For some reason I thought this was very witty and said to someone that it read like a cross between Pink Floyd and Gary Larson. I found some paper and began to scribble this down, with the rush hour up and running, its headlights and taillights tunneling through the hedge-and tree-shadowed, condensation-dimmed window, my wife reminding me that I was taking the wean to school...

Later, I read some of Tom French's new collection and worked a bit on the MS, tightening here and there and reordering some poems. Also worked on an old poem (about the dancing 'epidemic' in Strasburg in 1518). Shortened it dramatically. Works much better now I think.