Dear Bernadette, the first time we met, I told you “It Moves Across” was one of my favorite poems by anyone. You asked me why I liked it, which I did not expect. I was so full of shit back then, but I loved that poem and wanted to make a good impression on you, so I said, “You take me to a place I like to inhabit. It's a place I never knew existed until I read that poem of yours.” You offered me a glass of wine, and I really liked drinking that glass of wine with you. Then, just like that, you opened my copy of your book and read “It Moves Across” to my absolute delight!

Years later, after you learned that I was playing the lottery so I could build The Poetry Hotel for poor poets, you would ask, “Hey, CA! When are you going to win the lottery so I can move into The Poetry Hotel!?” Now that I'm older, I realize what a pain in the ass being the landlord of poets would be! If I ever do open The Poetry Hotel, I promise you, Bernadette, that a framed copy of “It Moves Across” will greet everyone who enters. And we will always keep a seat for you at the table. Much love to you, and I hope to know you again in the next life!