Some 20 books have accumulated on my desk here in this office that is gradually, perhaps I should write inexorably, becoming a nursery. This means that in addition to these approximately 20 books there are things like miniature overalls, a stuffed lamb, several diapers, a bib, some very small socks, a bottle of baby massage oil, etc. There is no good reason that there are, in addition to the baby gear, something like 20 books on this smallish desk -- they've just sort of crept up, as they say, on me. The Sesshu Foster, see below, is sitting splayed open on top of the monitor. I can see Serge Fauchereau's Complete Fiction sticking out near the bottom of one of the piles. Mary Gaitskill's Veronica is under the lamb. A corner of Lawrence Weschler's Everything That Rises is visible. E.H. Gombrich's A Little History of the World, due back at the library day after tomorrow, is sort of wedged up against the side of the keyboard. The most recent issue of Rain Taxi is flopping over the edge of the desk and out over the diaper basket. For some reason, looking at all this, I am put in mind of a James Wright poem about lying in a hammock on someone's farm. How can this be?