It seems to me that everything I want to say only fits into the gaps between the words I have at my disposal.

Poetry gets harder not because I don’t have things to write about, but because I don’t have the proper bricks to build the poems with.

Aging has made me acutely aware of how much I haven’t done yet. I feel like I’ve got so much more work in me and so little time to capture it as it should be captured.

I also feel like there’s no place for these poems to live once they’re born. I’ve married myself to a world of youth and immediacy and there’s no place for things that take more than a few minutes to truly comprehend.

Nothing feels right anymore. Working with Faro has made me uncomfortable in the best way: it’s made me discontent to rest on my laurels and repeat myself. I have so much new in me waiting to be born. Who’s going to listen to the new poet in me when all they want is the “elder statesman”?