poems scattered around the room in my never ending fool's errand as poet laureate of Watercolor's perfect world of happy accidents. We drool and weep out of context but scratch a portrait of Sexton dead in her car in the garage. We copy Plath's ****** scene of geese escaping winter to warmth. We endure cures of our lobotomies. Brilliant light was smothered. Grey men 4 years old on knees.