In general, I find that poets spend a lot of time thinking about themselves, and not a lot of time thinking about other poets, or other poetry. Unless they think about how it affects them, or how it could impact them.

I think I've always felt very isolated, and I'm sure lots of poets do.

I feel like I give myself all day long to other people and other things, and I still seem like I have something to write once in awhile. Not often, though.

There's an attraction to emotional clusters or hypocrisies or awkwardness. A desire to expose something or point at something that's already poking out.

I think e-mail and social media and all that has made me feel way less isolated than ever before.

I've read a lot more than most of the people that I know, except for one of my really close friends reads way more than I do.

I've always been intrigued with the male characters in novels like 'Pride and Prejudice' such as Mr. Darcy, and this poem is part of a series of poems that explore desire and obsessions. The poems have been sitting in a drawer for a few years, so I decided to dust them off and work on them again since I have not written a new poem in more than three years. I'm not sure anything will become of the series, but at least it gives me something to work on in a period where I feel very uncreative.