I Do Think That All Of Us

Anyone Who Says, “here’s My Address, Write Me A Poem,” Deserves Something In Reply. So I’ll Tell You A Secret Instead: Poems Hide. In The Bottoms Of Our Shoes, They Are Sleeping. They Are The Shadows Drifting Across Our Ceilings The Moment Before We Wake Up. What We Have To Do Is Live In A Way That Lets Us Find Them.

I Want To Be Someone Making Music/with My Coming.

The Hands Are Churches That Worship The World.

If A Teacher Told Me To Revise, I Thought That Meant My Writing Was A Broken-down Car That Needed To Go To The Repair Shop. I Felt Insulted. I Didn't Realize The Teacher Was Saying, 'make It Shine. It's Worth It.' Now I See Revision As A Beautiful Word Of Hope. It's A New Vision Of Something. It Means You Don't Have To Be Perfect The First Time. What A Relief!

My Mother Used To Tell Me When I Went Somewhere, "please Leave Your Foolishness At Home." But How Could I Do That? It Was Stuck On Me.