what is the sound of one hand typing

which is exactly what i've been doing the past two days. nicholas is ill, was running a fever, the best medicine, well the medicine he wants, is to be held. took the day off from work yesterday and did just that, all day, after a sleepless night for me and anna. last night the fever broke and nicholas slept the whole night. and tonight he is nearly back to normal.

so when i meant that my reading has been far afield lately i meant that i've been reading, and reading essays about, visual poetry, and reading small-press poets too, such as writing published in Thunder Sandwich, and been reading lyn hejinian again, to kickstart my own writing. perhaps this sounds eclectic only to my ears. i think poets need to read and be nourished by a whole lot of writing. also been taking notes from my reading and for poems. feel like i'm maybe coming out of one phase of writing toward another.

and so i wondered yesterday why i've never warmed to t. s. eliot. read him early, but not much, for i found him to be cold and menacing, and not my thing at all. why did i devour hart crane, but found eliot cold, and frankly boring? and why think about him now? i've no urge to read him again. it has nothing to do with fashions, or maybe even taste, my tastes at any rate. and yet i feel eliot is somewhere nearby, maybe just in the language as a latent influence, ready at a moment's notice to pounce.

hm. anyway, here is a small poem etched out yesterday, sort of in homage to the wonderful 8-word poems Steve Caratzas's been posting.

my epitaph

here
the poet

richard lopez

turning over
in his grave