This is just to say

I ate the oranges from the refrigerator.
No one else likes them here
but the cold, pulpy flesh almost
convinced me of winter.

Even in Texas. Even pregnant.

I've realized lately that I'm a bit of a book snob. Or just a snob in general. I never intended to be! I'm not perpetually dissatisified! I just seek perfect phrases, sentences, punctuated moments--and rarely find them. Never in my own work, occassionally elsewhere. My relationship with literature becomes more complex with time. Is it wrong to want good writing to be widely read? Is it wrong to want good writing? A month ago, I read Short Takes, the first of the Kitchen/Jones anthologies of short nonfiction--and decided that the following anthologies are much better and I wonder if there is such a way to forget genre distinctions and write something simply true and fulfilling and awesome--and how to anthologize that?

Perhaps that is called life.