I write poetry when a moment in the ordinary flow of moments startles with flashpoint intensity. I try to absorb the uncanny heat that lingers in the aftermath, even as it rises above me.

Then the work begins: recall the particulars of the moment with the candour of the heart before the rigour of the mind; watch them spin themselves into possibilities, sometimes beyond my bravest imaginings; gather the shiniest and the scariest details together (they’ll be the same ones); and arrange them to mirror the original moment.

I always fail: I end with a stained-glass window, fragmented, refracting, sometimes radiant.