You know that moment when you're workshopping, and you're reading your own poem out loud for a group of peers for the first time, and you're hearing this piece for the first time in a week, and though you've nearly forgotten all the work it took to bring the creature to life you're realizing that it is everything you hope every one of your poems becomes in the toil of weaving words and ideas...
and no one can say anything but how amazing it is, and quietly, in the self-composed place you maintain just beneath the curve of your left ventricle you know they're right?
I experienced that for the first time today.
I say "first" with great reservation.
This isn't the sort of juju I think the superstitious confidently rely on for repeat performances.