Have you ever been sad at the grocery store? I think of myself sometimes as drowning. The perpetual sea of poems swim in my head instead of words or thought or action. I run out of words quite often, actually, but I don’t run out of poems. Occasionally, I lie in bed at night and shake with the force of them. I have been speaking so much of desire — desiring, desired, object of, heady with — that perhaps what I am saying is the symptom of endless waitingness. I am taken with this, taken with this; this inaction. Instead of ending it, I vomit poems in the sink and buy my cereal and distilled water in the self checkout lane.
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