I will love and have pity, he says.

I found a book of Michael Hatnett's poems, finally, on sale in the basement of a Dublin bookstore. I brought it to Cornucopia where I ate a plate of fantasticicity as usual and read the first 20 pages. He reminds me of Neruda in that he aches to be accounted for romantically, but then he reminds me of nothing but what I want more than anything to be reading right there, in Cornucopia on a Thursday, when nothing else would suit the happenings of the day, my mood, the food or the weather so perfectly. I was in there for too long, I thought, and rushed out to catch a bus when I realized I had nothing to do. This delicious gift-received feeling came into me, like when you think it's 4 PM then find out it's only 2:30. I bought a french pear tartlet and watched people walk by at a cafe in between more pages of poems.

I turned in Yeats today. Sean will turn in his paper too and we will both be free at last, free at last, hallelujah, free at last for the 10 days before classes start.