Writers sometimes think up sentences that say beautifully what is intended, and they rush to their device to capture it in the light; they are crushed if they miss the portal.

That’s sort of what it is, inspiration.

Precision coming from practiced skill does not always make the best sentence, like this one. I know it was wrong, I did it any way to make a poent. This is poeitry.

Think of anything as poetry, think of everything as one.

I surprise myself with directions my fingers take, the shapes they make are sad cowgirl blues, worship of autumn, clouds taking shapes behind you, ladyfingers jobs, those delicate touch shapes that move only just enough to be a little bit happier.

But I’m still mad I lost that sentence.