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What a lonesome, futureless place of absence and ghostly laughter.
I think a lot about my inability to remember specific details surrounding my childhood. In "Vanitas," then, many magpied details: a stunning statue of Pan in the St.
So, it starts often with the declarative for me, an insistence.
With this poem it is a banishment: there are no children here.
This poem was first sparked by a lunch in Atlanta with a beloved poet friend years ago, when my first book came out.
After we finished our burritos, she took out a clean napkin and a pen and wrote down ten words. I'm interested in the relationship that anxiety and depression and have with addiction, media consumption, and substance abuse.