You know, poets steal from each other all the time.
If you try to be honorable--
this poem talks about that.
I went over to my friend's--
this is another island I was living on,
and I'd found him a place on the other side of the valley.
Because I was living an isolate life,
I didn't want to have people come to the house.
I would go over and see him to see
if he was all right every few evenings, every other,
every third evening.
And one evening he told me this story.
I said, you should try to-- that's really a poem.
Because he was trying to write poetry.
And then I got home and I kept wanting to write this poem,
and I kept wanting to write this poem.
And I did write this poem.
But I couldn't keep it.
I couldn't use it.
And it tormented me so.
So this is my version of cheating.
It's called Stealing from Donald.
Sometimes in the evening when the day cools,
I cross the empty valley to see my friend, who
told me a strange story two months ago
and I said there was a real poem in that.
He's been trying to write it ever since.
I did my version that week, but it's still his story,
so I can't tell you what happens over there.
[AUDIENCE LAUGHTER]