Bring To Me, It Said,

I Think Because My Parents Died In Their Early 50s, Mid 50s, I Always Thought I Would Die Young. And That's Been Both A Useful Thing And I Suspect Something That's Haunted Me A Little Bit.

I Don't Let A Poem Go Into The World Unless I Feel That I've Transformed The Experience In Some Way. Even Poems I've Written In The Past That Appear Very Personal Often Are Fictions Of The Personal, Which Nevertheless Reveal Concerns Of Mine. I've Always Thought Of My First-person Speaker As An Amalgam Of Selves, Maybe Of Other People's Experiences As Well.

Bring To Me, It Said, Continual Proof / You've Been Alive.

The World Is Always Somewhat Vicious. I Take That As A Given, But At Various Times In Various Circumstances That Fact Will Be No More Than A Shadow Or An Echo Behind Some Poem. Other Times It Will Be More Manifest. I Try To Write Myself Into Articulations Of Half-felt, Half-known Feelings, Without Program. I'm Always Working Toward Getting My World And, Hopefully, The World Outside Of Me Into A Version That Makes Sense Of It. Viciousness Requires The Same Precision As Love Does.

I’ll Always Deny That I Kissed Her. I Was Just Whispering Into Her Mouth.