A Smaller Version of Me with a Head of Tissue Paper

Since writing is keeping me from writing.

Since writing elsewhere is keeping me from writing here.

I realized tonight that I should point to a tiny piece of personal writing available elsewhere.

Nothing much, just a little remembrance of that object in my life that is most meaningful to me.

In a way, a gifted object.

This micro-essay appears in a project called "Object Lessons," which the poet H.L. Hix runs on his website.

Harvey is himself of interest: a poet who grew up in Middle Tennessee with my best friend from college, David Daniel, who may actually still be the poetry editor of Ploughshares, but I won't take the time to verify that at the moment.

Harvey has sent me a few of his books (and I'm sending him a stack of mine), and I'm surprised by one fact the most: all the translations he's done from Estonian.

Every language is a language made for poetry and capable of nothing more than making a poetry unique to that language.

Every event in a life is an event that could inhabit a poem.

I should make a poem sometime soon, but I've too much writing to do.

And maybe I don't have the right language for it.

ecr. l'inf.