. . . . .
The moon, likewise, returns
a blundering light not
to my bones but to
my bare breath. Body, I am Night.
I'm reading two manuscripts: one from a friend, the other
Jay Hopler's Green Squall. Struck
as ever with the green dart of envy. How is it
we are all writing this book
of the Self in the necessary
garden of predatory silences--
I'm struck by how difficult it is, the fact that we're mostly failing ourselves and our poems all the time.
How the work of being alone with oneself, trying to listen
is itself a serious enthusiasm. One we're not often rewarded for. Poetry,
I'm 32 and I'm poor. Too poor to see you at AWP.
And here I am on a Friday night alone
with a foolish attempt to listen instead to some distance
in the faltering waves, leaves
fixed and uncertain, the edges blown by a merciless
blurry
call,
lit up with my own luminous attention.
. . . . . .
