sometimes,

i love jerome sala so much. even if his wife is often better, prettier. oh.

I don't care if the chair's there or not, I'm sitting in it
the only illusion is the economy of ourselves

and the poem that's simply a lot of lines that poets can instantly recognize as The Thoughts You Have And Put On Napkins If You're Able, etc., to his wife, and then the end. and because she writes too.

Something about air barreling through a coalshaft. That's a very beautiful poem. Let it go.

sigh.