waiting for the bus last night, book on my lap, i didn't even want to read. the poems were so good i couldn't stand not to look up, out. no matter that all i saw was a still hot log of dog shit on the sidewalk. i don't know about you, but its why i read. the weather here does strange things to my brain. throughout january and february my new years resolution-- "be less critical"--seemed like a delusional demand, but now it is spring, and the view from the living room window is obscured by a wall of fleshy purple blossoms.