I got an email about my snapfish account this morning. I’d forgotten until then that I had a snapfish account, but apparently at one point I became so afraid of losing access to my digital photos (maybe my most persistent fear) that I ordered a whole lot of prints. years’ worth of photos, all of them ugly.
I also got an email about edits to my manuscript, which is funny, because the contents of that snapfish account are mostly a nightmare backstory to many of the poems in that manuscript.
Is a mattress at the edge of a not-grown cornfield intriguing? It is, right? I’d read a poem about that.
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