Bleary Eyed While Fired Up   My eyelids want to dance together. My brain would rather watch a YouTube video about New York City’s housing market or about a kid being born to a goat herder’s favorite doe than edit one more essay in the book galley spread before me. My life partner struggles to appreciate that every pass I make on my manuscript represents one less set of communications that will be needed between me and my publisher. The lone adult child, who still lives at home, offers to fill a hot water bottle for my back, to grill fish filets for our dinner, and to drag all our garbage to the curb. After spending a few minutes updating my poetry submissions log, I return to my opened file. In truth, I am grateful…

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