It's been two days since he realized the bottle of disappearing ink was empty. He must have spilled it and not noticed. It was probably at night, during one of his panic attacks, the ink spreading in the darkness, then disappearing with the dawn. He wonders where the stain is, waits for it to appear.
Over at the Philadelphia Orchestra this evening, de Burgos conducting Wagner: ah! the horns! ah! the trombones!
I know I've already linked to the Translation issue of Poetry a couple of days back, but as I read through it I discover new treasures. Including this glorious Bonnefoy sonnet and this translation of Olav Hauge (who, truth to tell, I've never heard of before) which is remarkable less for the poem itself and more for Robert Bly's lovely translator's note that provides so compelling a portrait of the man that I have the urge to go running to the library to try and find some of his work.