Okay, since I found the vers libre page, I've been poring over the poetry on the site. They have "On His Blindness" by Milton to Amy Lowell to Theodore Roethke. Very cool. They are missing out on a lot of poets, I'm sure. I noticed no May Sarton, Grace Paley, or Robert Pinske.

Yesterday when driving home from the gym I almost got hit by a monster truck. There is this spot on Mopac that splits for the 183 exit, and I always get over for that ASAP. I did that and this truck starts coming over into my lane, right next to me. I start honking and keep my hand on the horn as they keep moving over. I honestly think their height kept them from seeing me. I was driving on the shoulder even and finally I passed them. I didn't even start thinking about what had happened until I was on 183. Ack! Monster trucks = bad. I wonder if the driver was on a cell phone - that would explain a lot too. Or maybe he is just a bad driver, period. Whatever, it freaks me out when I think of it now. I don't know what I could have done differently, but I'm here now anyway.

Tape of the day: My mix of Patty Griffin Red, They Might Be Giants Flood and Collin Raye's I Think About You. Selected songs off of all those albums. I found it after my mom gutted my room at the house. Memories of college. . .

Here's a new favorite:

I Knew a Woman
Theodore Roethke

I knew a woman, lovely in her bones,
When small birds sighed, she would sigh back at them;
Ah, when she moved, she moved more ways than one:
The shapes a bright container can contain!
Of her choice virtues only gods should speak,
Or English poets who grew up on Greek
(I'd have them sing in a chorus, cheek to cheek).

How well her wishes went! She stroked my chin,
She taught me Turn, and Counter-turn, and Stand;
She taught me Touch, that undulant white skin;
I nibbled meekly from her proferred hand;
She was the sickle; I, poor I, the rake,
Coming behind her for her pretty sake
(But what prodigious mowing we did make).

Love likes a gander, and adores a goose:
Her full lips pursed, the errant notes to sieze;
She played it quick, she played it light and loose;
My eyes, they dazzled at her flowing knees;
Her several parts could keep a pure repose,
Or one hip quiver with a mobile nose
(She moved in circles, and those circles moved).

Let seed be grass, and grass turn into hay:
I'm martyr to a motion not my own;
What's freedom for? To know eternity.
I swear she cast a shadow white as stone.
But who would count eternity in days?
These old bones live to learn her wanton ways:
(I measure time by how a body sways).