At last you kissed me, I could die in waves again, and one good lick of quicksand took.

I began to write because I was too shy to talk, and too lonely not to send messages.

At last you kissed me, I could die in waves again, and one good lick of quicksand took.

Given a blank we can’t help trying to fill it in along lines of customary seeing or saying. But the best poetic lines undermine those habits, break the pre- off the -dictable, unsettle the suburbs of your routine sentiments, and rattle the tracks of your trains of thoughts.

I think one of poetry's functions is not to give us what we want... The poet isn't always of use to the tribe. The tribe thrives on the consensual. The tribe is pulling together to face the intruder who threatens it. Meanwhile, the poet is sitting by himself in the graveyard talking to a skull.