So, anyway, he is a phenomenal poet. The sheer variety of
subjects he takes on, and styles, and images and ease of rhyme (when he cares
to rhyme) is just mind-blowing to me. Here's one of my favorite images, which
comes as the last line in a very long poem about bats and, in particular,
chasing a bat out of his house one evening:
Stealthy as a parent, I wrapped it
gently up;
it chirruped, exerting a
questioning pressure
back through the towel like the
throb of a watch.
Up, window. Up, screen. I gave the
bat back
to the night like a cup of water
to the sea.
Man, it's poems like this that make me despair of ever being
a poet—and yet, it's poems like this that make me wonder if maybe I could be
one. Because of the way I resonate when I encounter that one, perfect image
("like a cup of water to the sea"). There must be something poetic in
me to be able to get such joy from a turn of phrase like that, right?
My dream: to hear someday that someone loved an image of
mine as much as I love this one.