Terrible dreams of wounded animals. Again/still thinking (redoubled) of being expats. Fire drill planning a foray. Decembery, this week friends from overseas in plaid rooms. Riding bikes to Hamlet and back after dark weaving through early concert leaves around the museums. Hearing final strains as Tom Petty, alive is just down the street. Hamlet –and much else- enriched by time away and meanwhile years encountering the princes and nincompoops of the world. All week now with the squeaky knees and kale. Blood types, jammy pants. Trying to find a next place to live, trying to find out who keeps taking our mail.

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Such attention is the only thing that seems to make cheerfulness possible again, regardless of the ways the end is being written around us.

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today's poem output: roasted yam and black bean tacos with tomatillo salsa.