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.