I woke up in The Poetry Center and Wendy was there showing me things. An army of librarians holding me in their strong paper arms, pushing me into the shelves, holding me back from the shelves. This is James Tate’s Notes of Woe fully letter pressed they said. There is always a train sound. Those weren’t ghosts up there. I need to find a jacket. I want Rebel’s Got a Hole In It to never stop. Maybe once we start to waltz we won’t be able to stop. We have groceries now. Everything is on the table now.