Dear Other Poets,
I wish I could see the poems you’d see if you were the one sitting here, looking out this window to this ordinary street. I know there are adjectives in those brushstrokes of gold where the tops of the treeline meet the distant blue of the sky, that would come naturally to you, the way it’s so easy for the ordinary 2:48 pm sunlight to break through the leaves and make it seem like the street is breathing. I know there is some complex, inspired phrase to call that cardinal that just darted across the yard, blur on the glass the color of fire trees but not exactly of fire, that would make the cardinal both an object of keen observation and a symbol of some profound thesis of the human soul. I wish I could remember things and know the details to focus on so that the words themselves line up like mosaic tiles of moments filling an empty space and interpreting the past so I could understand it better. Life is many different fireworks but I’ve seen the same explosion so many times I could faithfully paint it in my sleep. You, on the other hand, would give names to the ashes and pull curses and mantras out of the noise and the lull in between. I’ve always written from the heart but lately I’ve been wondering if my heart had made me miss out on things. Like how the end of spring is like a car crash, how the universe before the Big Bang was only two stanzas long, and why street corners matter so much to people who fear things, who hide things, who are living in recurring chapters of lonely stories and can’t stop wanting the things they cannot have.