Back to the nonet. Today’s draft almost didn’t happen — I’ve been fighting some sickness all day, back & forth fever, body aches, etc. I thought to maybe write about that, but then, well, Sylvia Plath pretty much owns the fever-as-poem, why ask for trouble? I imagine tomorrow, being Easter, which means we’ll be traveling to my mum’s, fever or no fever, my draft will be equally late. Still, it’s before midnight, which is all that counts. That, and I’m writing a lot of poems!
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