I don't write poems with a purpose in mind, but I'd hope that some readers would find their experiences mirrored or articulated here - and that the language would feel alive to them. Alive, in a way that is meaningful and pleasurable.
My days are filled with work I love - reading poems, writing poems, talking with people about poems, teaching, directing a writing program, hosting readings, etc.
I lost my mother early, I've sometimes felt I haven't had anyone to show me the way. When I look to the future there's only a blank. "I can't see past the point where I am," the speaker says at one point - "like you, I'm just passing through." If my mother were still alive I imagine I'd have a clearer sense of what a meaningful, vital life might look like 25 years down the line.
