The construction next door continues apace. The power was out all morning and I sat pouring through discarded book jackets, scissors in hand. I cut out pictures of Buster Keaton and taped them to my desk. I found titles for all of my forthcoming works of literature. Today, I will not answer the phone. Today, I will read only poetry. I will take solace in the company of my familiars. I will eat strawberries by the handful. My mind is a clearinghouse. I�m taking off for points south tomorrow. I think.

Dark, dark my light, and darker my desire.
My soul, like some heat-maddened summer fly,
Keeps buzzing at the sill. Which I is I?
A fallen man, I climb out of my fear.
The mind enters itself, and God the mind,
And one is One, free in the tearing wind.
       ����� --Theodore Roethke