I tried to write poems yesterday and the day before. Yesterday's poem meant to center on an image
of the pearlescent foggy light I saw driving in the early morning. A hard-cooked sun broke through at the top of the frame
(I thought of Denton Welch’s A Voice Through A Cloud and the accident) and there was an imminent, Holocaust-like aspect to the scene. Driving past the cow pastures there
were no cows. The poem was hopeless.
I wish I had taken a picture. Reaching the coven's clubhouse relieved I exhaled.
