It means all of the new calls for submissions will go unanswered from me.
It means I become insanely jealous when I read about acceptances to journals I respect and admire.
It means I have to pretend I would rather be doing other things when I know that isn't true.
It means I write poems by accident and not design.
It means I am on the prowl for ideas which might lead me to my next book.
It means I get a bit testy with those who do not understand the need to take a break from poetry.
It means all the books of poetry I own begin to mock me.
It means forgetting all of my old, stupid writing habits.
It means beginning again the process of watching the world.
It means prose becomes more appealing by the hour, sweet, awful prose.