Friday I visited Ann Arbor, Michigan. Most of the book shops I knew are gone, but Dawn Treader Books was still in business— a survivor from the great old days of Ann Arbor book shops. The poetry section was smaller than I remembered, with a few shelves so crammed with collections it was difficult even to dislodge a book from its place. I felt sad looking over titles and names. They weren’t just books. They were people I once knew. So much self-importance. So much certainty in their own greatness. Now here they were, interred in the last poetry mausoleum. I left Ann Arbor thinking I had wasted my life. But then I also thought this, how could I waste a life I’d chosen. That is something. That is perhaps something.