THROWING CLAY Bleeding earth soaked through with flood rain. Red clay smothering the stone walls below. Somewhere out there Gravity sits sat his wheel and churns loose earth into misshapen urns. NOTEBOOKS Every notebook begins with a good poem and a bad one, as if the pages want to remind you of your finitude, that language for all your “mastery” remains beyond your grasp—a subtle reminder that poetry exists inspite us and that the blank page, for all it’s liminal tension, has more to say than a pen could ever bleed. in the end the pen is a clumsy tool like bludgeoning a canvas and calling it art. SAN FRANCISCO: 7:00 AM To think, in the end, each morning is new and the sun rising over the hill is the same sun we saw yesterday only now glowing with all the splendor of expectation and the shudder that comes with fresh morning dew.