I'm Probably So Out Of It At

Every Poet I Know - Although There May Be Some I Don't Know Who Lead Very Different Lives, Who Maybe Live In The Country And Don't Teach - Tends To Be Just Like The Rest Of Us: Just Really Busy, Really Overcommitted.

Poems Come From Ordinary Experiences And Objects, I Think. Out Of Memory - A Dress I Lent My Daughter On Her Way Back To College; A Newspaper Photograph Of War; A Breast Self-exam; The Tooth Fairy; Calvinist Parents Who Beat Up Their Children; A Gesture Of Love; Seeing Oneself Naked Over Age 50 In A Set Of Bright Hotel Bathroom Mirrors.

To Me, The Mind Seems To Be Spread Out In The Whole Body - The Senses Are Part Of The Brain. I Guess They're Not Where The Thinking Is Done.

When Anyone Escapes, My Heart / Leaps Up. Even When It's I Who Am Escaped From, / I Am Half On The Side Of The Leaver.

Writing Or Making Anything-a Poem, A Bird Feeder, A Chocolate Cake-has Self-respect In It. You're Working. You're Trying. You're Not Lying Down On The Ground, Having Given Up.