I was so willing to pull a page out of my notebook, a day, several bright days and live
them as if I was only alive, thirsty, timeless, young enough, to do this one more time, to
dare to have nothing so much to lose and to feel that potential dying of the self in the
light as the only thing I thought that was spiritual, possible and because I had no other
way to call that mind, I called it poetry, but it was flesh and time and bread and friends
frightened and free enough to want to have another day that way, tear another page.