This book and I are acquaintances. We probably go to the same parties, we might throw down a, “hey,” or “how you doing?” but really we don’t have a lot in common. The poems in here are made of cleverness. There are word games. There are allusions. They’re not easy. I’m a bit intimidated by them, like if I’m at the party I think I’m not cool or smart enough to get into a conversation with them. But then when I get home, a little tipsy, kick off my tottering heals, just enough energy left to throw off my clothes and crawl into bed, smear mascara on the pillow, because I’m not quite awake enough to take that off, I’ll think about our relationship before falling asleep. And I’ll realize that I can’t get into every book of poems that comes my way, that I can’t be friend to all, that sometimes the emotional connection isn’t there. But I can give kudos and hang out with the shit I love, and pass on an occasional, “hey” on my way to the bar.