May 17:

It’s strange to reflect. I can’t remember April very well. When I was compiling all the poems I had written for this project, some of them seemed to have emerged from nowhere. This project eclipsed my life, and I suppose I could blame that on the virus, but I think the isolation I practiced only exacerbated what would always have been the case. For those weeks I had no past nor future. In some ways I think I have one long memory of writing one long, unnamed poem, in ink that blurs all the words.

It’s a question of identity at its core. Who was I in April, looking out my window at the empty parking lot? Am I somewhere in this endless set of mirrors? If I wrote about myself in the past, who am I in the present? Do they converge in the writing? All questions that have no urgency about them, but demand answers nonetheless.

A bit of good news: three poems I wrote in this time are published in an online magazine called Fleas on the Dog. A man named Hezekiah wrote some very nice things about them. Search at your own risk.