Nothing can happen to me anymore

My poem "Last Minute" has been accepted by Strange Horizons. This is the poem I wrote a few months ago in collaboration with my dreaming self: specifically, I dreamed I was in a nonexistent used book store, reading a volume of poetry in translation from a language whose reality is equally disputable. Awake, I very carefully wrote out a sort of critical apparatus of the text for future reference, since the lines I had brought out of the dream totaled just slightly more than half of the complete poem and the rest I had either to reconstruct from half-remembered images or rhythms or supply my conscious self—there were brackets and question marks and everything—and then I lost the entire record a few days later in a computer glitch and still feel awful about it. Influences detectable on waking included Thorold Dickinson's The Queen of Spades (1949) and Jean Cocteau's Orphée (1950) with an arguable side of Ice Cold in Alex (1958), but one way or another the rest is me. I have brought text out of dreams before, but never co-written with them. I am so very pleased the results will have this home. It has just been a horrible day and the acceptance was a sterling improvement.