No, I just can’t write today, I said to myself, sprawling on the couch, my mind an open invitation to sleep, when there it was: The Invisible Hand. A title. Having arrived unbidden, it felt like inspiration,
My friend has not called. I send her poems. She says she likes them, though they tell too much about farm life, too little about me. When I visit her in the summer, she says she hates her job, she’d like for me to live closer, that she’s afraid...