I have been dreaming in poetry lately. I had one a few days ago in whch I was watching Dylan play piano with my friend Tyler Burba. Dylan got up and turned around. He had turned into Elvis. Rock and roll! A poem descended from the sky, "What is it about the wide mouth curving into a snarl that we decide to stick to so strongly all?" I woke up just long enough to write that down. I wondered about it often the next day; what IS our love of the snarl is all about?

Then last night I dreamed in iambic hymn meter. This must be a symptom of reading Emily Dickinson every day. I woke up and wrote the lines of the poem. 

He used to bring her from his garden 

onions, garlic and sage.

In her cry the leap of life

spread from print to page.