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  • Although I continually imagine my next poem will be a beautiful, the quintessential experimental love poem based on sincere erotic persuasiveness and the lyrics of Dante, Pound, Niedecker, Oppen, Roy, Ondaatje and Fuller, I now know that this piece will not be written because of exhaustion. I am trying to figure out what it is. At one time I imagined my exhaustion was about moving to Connecticut, to losing my job, to getting pregnant, to dealing with a new marriage, a late wife, her children, to getting pregnant again, breastfeeding, taking care of the dog, getting the groceries, cooking kid food, getting to the lessons at the barn, the gym, the paintball competitions, my teaching at all odd hours and on Christmas Day, the neverending grading, the traffic on Whalley Avenue during Obama's America Resurrection Act. I felt tired from the lack of intimacy with you, too much intimacy with the children, the distant intimacy with my step children, dismal from the 6 months of winter each year, the outrageous fuel bills, the flooding basement, the grey days in and out of Reni's house, our reluctant household, the few photographs and watercolors and bookcases we've gathered, a gradual burial. Now on this seventh Mother's Day, I don't know what it is, is it the time, maybe I don't eat enough fruit, I eat too many carbs, too much cheese, too much coffee, have many beers, too many aspirations & desires to manage, to see through, or is it that being in love with you is exhausting, the circumstances relentless, pure, a mixed drink on an alligator pond --- sun setting and rising, lulls of bugs, bright sky, they say it is like licking honey from a knife, like that, like you, I will be tired no matter what and will probably not write the poem but will think about writing it until I stop breathing.

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