Me.

Me, this summer: thinking about poetry, thinking about revisiting, revising, reemerging. Thinking of the phoenix who rises up from the ash, only to be consumed again. Thinking about the million different people a poet can become in the real world and how to fight those to get word on page. How this will be a place, a new beginning, an extension of my self. Thinking about the smell of fruit when it is fresh, about campfire, about the luxury of sleeping past five, about cotton sheets, about the sound of fans, about the seedlings in the garden. Thinking about Tuesdays and that week at the end of July, thinking about meeting Carolyn Forche, about putting together a portfolio, about the old poems. And the new.