I have only written two poems in April. Thus far, the count for the year is 32, which means I still have a long way to go. Writing is sometimes difficult for me, it requires that I dredge up some past or some emotion and sometimes all I want to do is go through a week of being blindly human. Going to work and coming home and cooking meals and petting my cat and laughing with friends, without any pesky remembrance.
Then I'll see someone on the train that we both know, and want to ask how you are, but I can't and that makes me feel close to violently ill, and I'll come home and won't let myself write about that. Sometimes, I'll write poems that are lists of things that I'm not allowed to tell about.
Spring is nice, the blooming is important. I've been drawing robins again, because I've decided that I want one tattooed on my chest, the right side, because I've had this Leonard Cohen lyric in my head for three years now (this is also why robins often appear in my sketchbook pages, and sometimes with a few of the words):
I don't mean to suggest that I loved you the best
I can't keep track of each fallen robin
Honesty is a strange and delicate thing.