Months and months ago, I used to throw pebbles at windows, looking for friends who'd go on midnight walks with me. Now at midnight, I count the itchy red blotches on my back, physical evidence of my anxiety: over unemployment, death, mis-communiqu�s, the news. (I think, We are all going to die. . . . Let's move to Iceland.) Yesterday I put up a poem; hours later, I took it down. Poems are hard to write these days.




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