Rereading Kathleen Fraser’s Translating the Unspeakable: Poetry and the Innovative Necessity (2000) in preparation for some teaching this year. Stumbled into Barbara Guest’s dreamscapes. How much does emotion colour your dreams? Sometimes such residue feels the longest hours beyond. How often a day’s blue tint, whose dream was responsible? I live in Sunday celadon. I love you. Ardent light.
mariaology 