If young men are killing not only themselves but also other innocent civilians with the backing of their people, you should be able to figure that out. It’s too much; you’re not listening. Keep reading. Nothing is in here. Poems, as Spicer reminds us, are written for ghosts—there is no point in *my* living life elsewhere, so this is the place to be.
Infinitely more
Are an infinite miracle
The beauty of something you can do when the attempt toward that thing, thoroughly promised, is penned to dissolve or resolve our hopelessly dated history in a way that feels like something true. Everything settles down from someone telling the stories in which everyone appears, i.e. the writer’s thought in the space of committing to thought. There’s a loosening and gathering into sense, an erasure and inscription of sapient terms that melt in the leavening of one state to another. The poetry of one’s self in relation to one’s self and all that self may be embodied by to others. There’s a gentle curvature in its reflection—it moves toward the readers who come.
~ from Andrew Levy's *Nothing is in Here*
*drawing titled "Amygdala Alembic Talisman," by Robert Kocik
