I regret to inform the readership of a lack of poems for April 10 and 11 — the conference/traveling will be my excuse. I promise to write some extra poems so I end up with enough for the whole month. That’s probably cheating. I’m okay with it. Here are poems from days 8 and 9, in Denver, at the AWP Conference.Conference Nightcap The whiskey on my breath could make my roommate dizzy. But I pour another inch; such drinking is too easy. We conference til the pens had finally run dry; my roommate’s contact lenses were soldered to her eyes. The program in my bag is thicker than the Bible; the keynote, at the end, was like a tent revival. I’ll have just one more sip then tuck myself in bed. I do this every year and still I am not dead. How I Will Sleep Tonight Between crisp, cool hotel sheets on the 29th floor. Snoring the dry, mile-high air. I have eaten and drunk and gossiped. I have ridden the express elevator up along its perfect steel spine. I have slipped the coded plastic card into its slot turned the handle. The hotel’s white noise starts a dulling opiate inside my brain. Near midnight, I teeter on an edge, and I know the depths will draw me down and down like breath into the spider-silk hammock of not even dreaming.