Spring is in the air. Had a strange duende sensation, picking up a pizza last night in Fox Point, near the park. The librarian has his hobo moment. Poetry is mathematical sometimes; it's also sometimes a welling-up from somewhere else.

Then again, it may not have had anything to do with poetry. Providence needs me, & vice versa. Social consciousness is the elixir of youth. 

Interesting article in Science NY Times on origins of language, here.

Among other things is noted the possibly key role of a single gene called FOXP2 in the evolution of language capacity, & the differentiation of hominids from apes.

This is funny to me because Stubborn Grew plots a journey across Providence to the harbor neighborhood of Fox Point. The narrator scribbles at the coffeetable, "Fox Point, fixed point, faux point. . ." The "point", in the story, is the crux of split-up which the poem mourns/interprets, ending with a take-off on the Song of Songs, "Catch us the little foxes..." Anyway, I remember getting a letter from the poet Kristen Prevallet, in which she described Stubborn Grew as a human genome project. Maybe there's more to that than I realized.