I'm Writing Mostly To Thank You For

I Do Think That All Of Us Think In Poems.

Today You Will Say Things You Can Predict And Other Things You Could Never Imagine This Minute. Don't Reject Them, Let Them Come Through When They're Ready, Don't Think You Can Plan It Al Out. This Day Will Never, No Matter How Long You Live, Happen Again. It Is Exquisitely Singular. It Will Never Again Be Exactly Repeated.

Maybe We Try Too Hard To Be Remembered, Waking To The Glowing Yellow Disc In Ignorance, Swearing That Today Will Be The Day, Today We Will Make Something Of Our Lives. What If We Are So Busy Searching For Worth That We Miss The Sapphire Sky And Cackling Blackbird. What Else Is Missing? Maybe Our Steps Are Too Straight And Our Paths Too Narrow And Not Overlapping. Maybe When They Overlap Someone In Another Country Lights A Candle, A Couple Resolves Their Argument, A Young Man Puts Down His Silver Gun And Walks Away.

Sometimes There’s No One To Listen To What You Really Might Like To Say At A Certain Moment. The Paper Always Listens.

Anyone Who Says, “here’s My Address, Write Me A Poem,” Deserves Something In Reply. So I’ll Tell You A Secret Instead: Poems Hide. In The Bottoms Of Our Shoes, They Are Sleeping. They Are The Shadows Drifting Across Our Ceilings The Moment Before We Wake Up. What We Have To Do Is Live In A Way That Lets Us Find Them.