I love the poetry world. I really do. It’s an automatic, unguarded love that I might outgrow someday but not yet, not yet. When I go to a new town, I like to find the poetry shelf of whatever the local bookstore is and run my fingers along the spines like I’m thumbing the pages of a yearbook, looking for any name I can match to a face and conversation. The eccentric good-ness of this writing community has seen me through many a dark night.
We owe it to each other to shepherd that goodness, and that means recognizing when something has gone very wrong.