Poems do seem to want to announce, over and over, that life’s warm zephyrs are blowing past and the gravestones are just beyond the next rise. Little groupings of gravestones, all leaning and cracked, with a rusty black Victorian fence around them. They’re just over that rise. Poets never want to forget that. And actually we need to hear that sometimes. And we need poems to declare love, too. Which they do, over and over. I love you, or I love her, or I love him — love is behind a huge mass of poems — and that’s good. Because actually those are two truths that we should keep on thinking for ourselves. I love you, and all the people I know and depend on are going to reach the end of their lives and when they go it’s completely unexpected even when part of you knew it was in the offing.
Words words words from The Anthologist, novel by Nicholson Baker. [If anyone’s wondering, regular posting will resume as soon as I get out from under the bed, and get the week-old Cheetos out my hair.]