Normally, in prose, I see and speak and write in one direction. From my senses, I send you a message, hoping to deposit a singular interpretation. Sometimes, with humorous wordplay, I deviate with double meanings, a spicy liqueur diversion. Rarely, do I plainly serve you a menu of meanings and ask – you to choose – dessert, and rarer still, do I plant a seed, I found on the ground, for you to garden; to grow branches or vines, by your designs, or in all directions, and which under your care, perhaps bear some fruit, maybe fallen fruit to share again with me. Such fruit, even by accident, is poetry. Poetry, as I pick it, is not always a lyrical flower, but I mean any mixture of objects bound by sweet and sticky meanings. What an ancient meal, a poet’s accidental meanings.