Happy Birthday, Galway. I have loved your poems for over twenty years. I remember sitting with your book in the university library, reading strange, dark New England flavored lines, again and again. I remember your vapor trails, mystical trees, your small fires of thought.

Do you remember the reading you gave in Santa Barbara, the year you published Imperfect Thirst? And the cake in the likeness of your book? I was the guy who carried it eight blocks in the rain. I couldn’t find a closer place to park, and sometimes I’m an idiot. I recall you had a cold.

I have been in love with your love of words and people I will never meet, so come again. I’ve grown this wise: I’m not afraid to double park.