A: You must feel a little like the pieces aren’t quite
fitting together, existing as you are
on the periphery of your own life, no?

B: It is more like Laquedem wandering
the countryside, wandering
and knocking on the doors of ghost houses.

A: Yes! That’s exactly right! And but isn’t the burden
of loneliness also your life-blood?

B: It is impossible to say which is darker.
I drew myself standing in the rain for a year.
I photographed myself in a lightless room.

A: Is it true that you consider your writing of poetry a sacrifice
rather than self help? If so, what exactly are you sacrificing,
and for whom?

B: It is really me trading my emptiness for the shell,
and loving what I give away.
I look at those around me and don’t recognize myself.
I am the people I’ll never meet.

A: That brings me to my next question—What does one do when his failures
aren’t grand enough or even understandable, and yet they hang around like
filthy hands?

B: I guess you publish them. [laughter] There is still the door
to the river, which isn’t a door,
just door-like.