Some poets have signature words, they inhabit those words so thoroughly, they are seldom to be read without them. I think of W.S. Merwin’s rain, Cole Swensen’s hand, Robert Creeley’s here. Perhaps the frequent moving, at the beginnings of making a poetry I could inhabit, separated me from my private language stash. I found I could only visit the stash once in a while, check on it, take what little I thought I needed to recall my homestead, and be on my way.