out the window I see leaves in isolated graceful falling twirl. fog thru the trees. a moody keyboard piece by Bach on the radio. sunday morn. the cat (living) has been fed, and his morning rampage (for instance, splashing his drinking water across he kitchen floor) is over for now. the dog eyes me, implanting the word walkies in my head. I'm glad I've been too busy to worry about dead kitten poetics. I understand that Kasey is talking issues of craft and aesthetics but I don't think that a poem that Kasey liked could stand up to such scrutiny. I mean, a poem is in a different space for me than that. it's a matter of where the poem is, amidst all this talk. I am taking a course in creative imagination--lardy dardy--from which I get the possibility: what if your response to a poem were a dance (or drawing, or musical piece)? remove the contest from the logic brain, that is. which isn't so much about aesthetics, aesthetics aint the point, but instead to rewire the response system to a wider sensitivity. I'm wary of Here's Me poems just as Keats was wary of Wordsworth. I don't want to defend Oliver's poem, I don't want to worry about it. if someone likes it, they aren't my enemy. the discourse engendered by the dead kitten poem seems less a response to the poem and more like a replacement thereof. we're all muttering dead kitten, dead kitten, but the poem is gone. that's all I wanted to say. I shall be busy the next 6 weeks, won't likely post much except pictures. as was writ on a gravestone: remember me is all I ask but if remembrance be task, forget me.