These and other tools help poems call our attention to moments when the ordinary nature of experience changes--when the things we think we know flare into brighter colors, starker contrasts, strange and intoxicating possibilities.

So why do we insistHe has vanished, that death ran off with ourEverything worth having? Why not that he wasSwimming only through this life--his slow,Graceful crawl, shoulders rippling,Legs slicing away at the waves, glidingFurther into what life itself denies?He is only gone so far as we can tell. ThoughWhen I try, I see the white cloud of his hairIn the distance like an eternity.

Is God being or pure force? The windOr what commands it? When our lives slowAnd we can hold all that we love, it sprawlsIn our laps like a gangly doll. When the stormKicks up and nothing is ours, we go chasingAfter all we’re certain to lose, so alive—Faces radiant with panic.

This is why I love poems: they invite me to sit down and listen to a voice speaking thoughtfully and passionately about what it feels like to be alive.

This is why I love poems: they require me to sit still, listen deeply, and imagine putting myself in someone else's unfamiliar shoes. The world I return to when the poem is over seems fuller and more comprehensible as a result.