Because sometimes I live in a hurricane of words
and not one of them can save me.
Anyone who says, “Here’s my address,
write me a poem,” deserves something in reply.
So I’ll tell 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.
Poetry [is] more necessary than ever as a fire to light our tongues.
We dropped our troubles into the lap of the storyteller, and they turned into someone else's.