Read a poem by another poet written
on the same day:

journal of the night of the wish to extend the dream

teach myself to fend
the opera didn't take my call
it's too late I cried
too late
          to call it anything
     else but notes to a
             lost God…

Don't call me more than
human                    don't go
into that information
to, to, what it comes down to
which I recommend,
          which fed this
     replacing fact w/a
story

                              you know, you research
                    and work and play and
                    spill

                                        and we're
                              still here
and stories
stories behind each one
          want?  need?
it's such a precarious thing.