Sometimes I think all poetry is a love song. Other times I think all poetry is a letter to the dead. Maybe they’re both, dancing like the naiads and the sicklemen in Shakespeare’s “The Tempest.” Imagination’s dinner show before the feasting begins. And the constant recitation and revision of poetry is the ever-sharpening pencil behind the truth of this encounter, that so-often repeated, stumbling, humbling, stellar depth of I and Thou. Does the beloved change as we change? Does the encounter find more apt names and naming, or does that simply broaden the mystery of it all? Is fate a waylaid kiss or a cruel joke? The nakedness of your poetry comes to this adult encounter ready to start from a real beginning. Maybe that’s all we can ask of poetry, or love, in order to begin our dying. Anyhoo, the prose stanzas work well, for this is an essay of the heart, and explication of perhaps new territory which needs “collective adjectives” in order to pucker up for a kiss.The stage is apropos as proscenium for all to come. Who knows … we look forward to the news.