what I do know is that I love the moment when the poet says I am trying to do this or I am trying to do that. Sometimes it’s a horseshit trick. But sometimes it’s a way by which the poet says I wish I could tell you, truly, of the little factory in my head: the smokestacks chuffing, the dandelions and purslane and willows of sweet clover prying through the blacktop. I wish I could tell you how inside is the steady mumble and clank of machines.
