This issue, possibly the last to be printed, provides much to recommend: poems by Beth Bentley and Melinda Mueller, two stunners from Mercedes Lawry, Tina Kelley’s hilarious “Bob and Sally Laminate Are Moving Out,” Elizabeth McLagan (mercy!), “Helen’s Tears,” by Marc Hudson, and the Mark Benchley Anderson Award winner, “Dear Sir Who Declares ‘I Am Going F—— Fishing’ ,” by John Bradley.

I admit: I have not made it all the way through the issue. I can read only about five poems at a time—and then, it’s too much. Overwhelming. Full.

My husband is this way with art museums. He races through them to avoid being swept away. He fills up quickly, whereas I want to linger, absorb, let each image and color and angle—as much depth as possible—soak into me. I guess my art skin is thick.

Back to the idea of chronobiology—a time for everything and an optimum time for writing—I realize that my peak times, mornings and afternoons, coincide with the times when I read. So maybe, for me, it’s influenced less by the clock and more by suggestion, especially in the afternoon.

And now I have misplaced this husband, who went into town for picnic supplies, having become Master of the Champagne Lunch. I may have to go in search of him.

In the meantime, I have been taking pictures. And yes, finally, I did write.

In the meantime, pick up a copy of Fine Madness.

***
P.S. Husband returned.

P.P.S. There’s a machine outside our door that sounds like my ice cream maker, so every time I leave our hotel room, I think about making ice cream.