Every time I write about a book here—any book—I am writing about the work of someone who experienced the miraculous transformation of their language into a material form. I try to keep reading from a place of curiosity and wonder, but as I get older I have this deep feeling of grief and bitterness that takes me over sometimes. I am in its grip until it passes.

Not having a full-length book felt completely normal as an aspiring writer in my twenties but as I move towards the end of my thirties without one and when, to modify a line from Alice Notley’s bio, I have never tried to be anything other than a poet, and all of my ancillary activities have been directed to that end, I’m starting to reckon with the possibility that it might just not happen for me.

I know it doesn’t happen for many people. I just hope that I can find a way to be at peace with it, because I’m scared that as I grow older, the grief and bitterness will crowd out the curiosity and wonder and joy. I like who I am when I live in the latter set of terms—the former are a difficult place to be for any length of time. I’m scared about what it would be like to feel them all the time.