Poetry isn’t a place to let myself get defeatist.
It’s a space where I can be curious about why I worry I’ll never be true enough. Which is what I do all the time now, now that I’m 45 going on 300.
I don’t want to engage with language and its minion silence in profound ways that’ll help define for me a sense of being beyond being. In fact, I have yet to learn how to knit, so, maybe I should try that first.
I RAMBLE INTO THE LAND OF ME 