We learn it like a poet: You’re dead. You’re lying in the ground thinking, I’m not coming back to life ever. What am I going to do? You’ve made your bed and now lie in it. With poems such as these, however, the dying part is over, now comes the living part, from—the heart. And then you realize, History has a history of mystery too. A roll of the heart at the table of love wins you a jackpot of art seen from below & above, the soles of your feet anchored in the street, the roof of the ivory tower pressed against a higher power…no place, you admit, for denial in this new ideal. If the living will were not contested, they would be yours—the vowels yours, the consonants yours, the rhythms yours; how from the wild complicated mess of things you humbly learn, as evidence of listening both to the people–What you think you need is more freedom? I’m gonna change your point of view, Dropped into a net of a million freedoms–and to your own heart within.