What you think of me is not me. You don't know my math. And God reads my poetry. This is what the good writer knows. God is reading him even when there's weeping inside the house and it snows. My mother said to me once in Connecticut in my glorious teens, when I felt the pain of my first innocent love, "Be good now, not later. Always, always be good, or you will hate her," but the advice was useless; I had already learned of the prodigal. I laughed because she had unintentionally rhymed, even though she said it so seriously! and I knew at that time, too, there would be older times and far off seas. I laid in bed, reading Emily Dickinson's pleas, many of which were, frankly, difficult to understand. The world was too sweet and large. For a full five minutes I examined the shape of my hand.
