When we leave, perhaps what we seek is to know who we are and who we want to be a little closer to. The book of poems kept more verses for me.

Hilda Doolittle, Marianne Moore, Louise Bogan, May Swenson... I read it and understand that poetry, like the ice at the poles, could succumb. It's not easy, no matter how far you go, it is always necessary to resort to your imagination. Imagine it. And resist.