of class tomorrow: two back-to-back poetry writing classes, beginning and advanced, and I have been fantasizing all weekend about fourteen lemons and twelve smooth stones which I will give over to, put into the hands of, the fourteen beginners and twelve seasoned poets, these round desirable fist-breasts organ-lumps, this fruit and earth, this madre y padre, this sex and death. And for the beginners I have a lemon poem, Eden poems, Eve poems, dead garden poems to show, as is sweet and fitting--Frank Gaspar, Louise Gluck, Milton, Eliot's children in the apple tree--and for the old salts, also crystalline also fit, Marie Howe's mountain, Blake's grain of sand, Dean Young's asphalt, C. K. Williams' clay, and Frank Gaspar's stone garden statue of the Buddha. And someone will say: not navels, but nipples and wombs filled with veins, with seed, with infant limbs and roots and blind knowing: and someone will say like bone like ash like the myth of Sisyphus the rock that rocks the sea, the monolith and the tower, the law and the father: and I will say yes yes and yes yes: bring it on: deeper:
