I am drained. After four volumes of poetry (and no less than seven adoring readings of "i sing of Olaf"), I declare myself done. Howl reverberates through my head to the tune of "Richard Cory." When I close my eyes, I see images of the Kandinsky painting "Winter Landscape" with the words of Longfellow's poem of the same title superimposed over it. Well, not really, but you know what I mean.

My brain is so full of poetry that I can't even think for myself. Which, oh Lord, gets me thinking about the Beatles, which brings me to Paul McCartney, which gets me back to "Richard Cory" and "Moloch!..."

Gah. Make it stop.