let me just tell you. poetry is air. it's a shirley temple with one of those ridiculously skinny red straws and two cherries at the bottom. it's an empty trash can. it's the red pen scrawl of "exceptionally done" on the two-o'clock-a.m.-sleep-is-a-dream essay. it's too much sunlight to keep from wild blinking. it's the truest blue tint of toothpaste you can find to buy.

thank you, albert goldbarth. reading your poetry is exactly like dancing with a man whose lampshade shroud is the mirrored self of mine.