.. To A Poet, The Human Community

She'd Crack A Joke Sharp As A Tin Lid Hot From The Teeth Of The Can-opener, And Cackle Her Crack-corn Laugh.

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.

The Amount Of Horror One Used To Hear About In One Village Could Be Quite Extreme. But One Might Not Have Heard About All The Other Villages' Horrors At The Same Time.

Many Poets Write Books. They'll Tell You: Well, I've Got My Next Book, But There Are Two Poems I Need To Write, One About X, One About Y. This Is A Wonder To Me.

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.