'Once I had a dream about a sea mollusc that latched onto the inside of my calf, and stayed there. The logic of the dream made me understand that the mollusc wasn’t actually a mollusc, but the mollusc was a poem, not mine, but one that I had read. The poem wasn’t identifiable, but the poem was a good poem, and I woke up with questions. What, exactly, do I want from poetry? What space does poetry hold (in the body, in the mind, in society)? What is the work of poetry? Why does it always return so persistently (that is, both for me, personally, and in a broader historical sense), and what makes it stick?' (Introduction)
