On Not Being a Poet

I call the above Twilight Self-portrait with Bags Under My Eyes. Yes, I am a tired Phoebe.

I was just talking to Sean over IMs about poetry, of all things. He asked me for some recommendations, and I began to wax excited about Richard Siken. Then I thought: maybe I should post one of my old poems on my blog. After all, they're not going publish themselves, and I stopped sending them out long ago.

Combing back through those old document folders is always a little strange, a little difficult. So ...