Washed into a bookstore today; almost got The Beauty of the Husband by Anne Carson. Almost got the Cantos, almost got Howl. Almost got A. R. Ammons' long poem garbage. Got nothing.

My life remains poised on the edges of texts, at the house's threshold (looking for naked people inside). A life on the page-edges, checking the margins' thickness.

Walking home was sea-salt sharp and sea-salt fresh; one block was fresh-grape sweet.

Meanwhile my thanes stormed into Baghdad and killed some unfortunate bystanders, themselves already long-suffering.