When I was a kid I’d take a mirror and point it up, walk around staring into the hole at my feet. It felt exhilarating like I might fall through. I’m OK if you do this with queer, though you don’t really risk falling. But even that’s not true: to feel is to fall, and in one hundred years we'll both be dead, we'll be Other. And that’s why it’s OK to use me for your poetics. Let the poem be the white house at the end of the road. Let it be everything, impossible white in the dusk. The man who lived in the house just died, and as he was the last one you didn’t come out to, now you no longer care who knows. It’s a weird feeling. It’s a little like you’re walking into a great light. It’s nice to think there is always something to come out of. You really like this place you’re seeing, there are all kinds of shapes, women and men, wolves, rabbits and deer. There might be a war or a love between them and you should cover it. You don’t have a job, but if you had one, this would be it.