Writing poetry is a good way to communicate in this busy world. In the interstices of appointments, duties, transport connections and pleasures, memories recur, are dwelt on, interpreted, revised; until, one day, you make it known that you would like to hear something from me. And there they are, waiting for me, ready to be written down, quite quickly, and handed over to you efficiently, the sweets and pills of my life, which you can swallow, absorb, or pass—on— without giving them much of your time either.
March 2000