Noon o-five and there's a small plane buzzing overhead, round and round, and I've just laid down Douglas Dunn's book of poems The Noise of a Fly (2017, Faber), from which I am trying to learn something, not so much about form, which he excells at, as about honesty, getting to the bottom of things, not sounding poetic, but like oneself, whoever that is.
The plane is dragging an advertisement for a bike shop fire sale.
Over to Berkeley this afternoon for my poetry group. Picking Peter (Dale Scott) up on my way. Taking a tarte tatin, as my contribution to dinner, after workshopping one another's work. Chances are the conversation will be political.
Middle child emailed from Hong Kong this morning, with pictures of food. I had no idea she was there. But the food looked yummy.