Poetry Is A Sort Of Homecoming.

A Poem, Being An Instance Of Language, Hence Essentially Dialogue, May Be A Letter In A Bottle Thrown Out To The Sea With The-surely Not Always Strong-hope That It May Somehow Wash Up Somewhere, Perhaps On The Shoreline Of The Heart. In This Way, Too, Poems Are En Route: They Are Headed Towards. Toward What? Toward Something Open, Inhabitable, An Approachable You, Perhaps, An Approachable Reality. Such Realities Are, I Think, At Stake In A Poem.

Reality Is Not Simply There, It Does Not Simply Exist: It Must Be Sought Out And Won.

Who Is Invisible Enough To See You

Don't Sign Your Name Between Worlds, Surmount The Manifold Of Meanings, Trust The Tearstain, Learn To Live.

How You Die Out In Me: Down To The Last Worn-out Knot Of Breath You're There, With A Splinter Of Life.