I At times poetry is a falling. The stumbling of a thought into a chasm of a place that had been barred and condemned, the precipice of a visitation of a history we’d tried to turn from. Paint left scraped on the wall. The buttermilk my friend would pour, how she’d get her mom, twice her size, into the bath, to sober her up. How her father’s trance was our liberation: no supervision meant we did what we wanted. At times poetry is a howl. My whole neighborhood of dogs collidin