Every collection of poetry makes a force field of energy. When creating you give yourself over to it. In the fiercest moments of imagination the artist may not know where they are going, the how and when of it, and it doesn't matter. What matters is the process regenerates and meaning shifts at every turn.

It hasn't always been this way, because glacierswho are ice ghosts create oceans, carve earthand shape this city here, by the sound.They swim backwards in time.

There is no poetry where there are no mistakes.

Was it sleep?Or the star-dancer come for her dance?There are stars who have names, who aredreams. There are stars who have familieswho are music. She thought she woke up.

something echoesall forgotten dreams

Remember you are this universe and thisuniverse is you.

Istudy and read poems and try to putmyself in them.

Her escape is my own.I tell her, yes. Yes. We rideout for breath over the distance.Night air approaches, the gallopingother-life.No sound.No sound.

She thinks of the 4 a.m. lonelinesses that have foldedher up like death, discordant, without logical and beautiful conclusion.