Does one keep a book for just one poem when the others feel stripped of all energy by the sharp blade of structure - cut to the quick until all blood is gone? What if that one poem is like a still night filled with moths hurling their bodies against dim windows, with light and shadow, with the prick of cold and he glow of inner longed-for, remembered warmth? It is a slender book after all, and there may come a day when the slow, pale meter of the other poems feel like meditation, not lack.