So the next part of the book is a long poem
of 64 poems and six--
more than 64 pages-- but 64 poems,
and it's four sections, 16 poems each.
And the poem is titled The Maybe-Bird,
which is the title of the book.
I won't go into too much detail, but a little bit
about the structure.
So of the four pieces, there's a lot of repetition that occurs,
and in short, the first poem and the last poem
of each of the four sections must only be 16 lines.
And I wrote the first poem, and then I
decided what happens in between all the spaces.
So I wrote a poem for each line, so each line
had to be-- so kind of like a crown of sonnets.
Each line-- so then I wrote 16 poems for each of the lines
in the first poem.
And then I got to the end, and I thought, well,
let's do another 16.
So the 16th poem, each line became a new poem,
and that was section two.
And I did the same thing four times.
And then I decided everything weaves back on itself,
and I was thinking-- a long story--
about rope splicing and the center of the lake,
and how necessary that rope is sometimes.
When we get too close to the center, something to pull us
back, living in that balance between the very center
of the lake, which could be oblivion, and the shore.
So I spliced the rope back, so then I
decided the first poem would also
have a line from the last section-- that was number two,
and blah, blah, blah.
So anyway, it got very complicated.
[LAUGHS]
And if you look at the book, there's
a picture in the back, which is the drawing of the process.
And if [LAUGHS] anyone ever, as a weaver, would do this,
I would love--
I'm trying to do it with actual materials, but it's hard.
So anyway, that's all to say you'll hear some repetitions.
"I wear a dress not of time's poisoned quills.
Still, I sleep within my two bodies,
a poison wearing a quill dress of ours for our dim procession.
Each day we wake to a feedback loop of anoxic oceans
where each wave a blank page to begin with.
The sound of my immaterial twin, the deafening arts
of repetition, tinkling rush of shells against the shores,
sculptured mantle, her other self
plotting her reckless escape.
Not yet for death, would she heave her body
from these waves?
I've become, of my two selves, the confluence.
When the flood returns to swallow the earth,
the day will seem a tranquil derangement.
Most will gather in the interior.
Those left behind will be lost together."