Friday, December 23, 2011


We met on Solstice Eve at Common Roots Cafe in Minneapolis.  The sidewalks were slick with a dusting of snow.  We had peanut soup, pasta, tea, puff pastry.  The last time I was here, it was with Colleen too, who has since moved to the climes of Atlanta, and I was pregnant.

We spoke of:  goats and vanilla and macaroons.  We were more serious about surrender and water and fracture and soil systems and harvest.  We winnowed closer to aubades.  Ghosts as well.

We decided:  a cycle of four, an orderly bit, drawing threads of poems (one word, one phrase) previous.  Fifty-two in all, thirteen apiece, and a machine at the end pumping out editions:  Vandercooked over chai and winter seepings.

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