Finding a new poet br is like finding a new wildflower br out in the woods. You don't see br br its name in the flower books, and br nobody you tell believes br in its odd color or the way br br its leaves grow in splayed rows br down the whole length of the page. In fact br the very page smells of spilled br br red wine and the mustiness of the sea br on a foggy day - the odor of truth br and of lying. br br And the words are so familiar, br so strangely new, words br you almost wrote yourself, if only br br in your dreams there had been a pencil br or a pen or even a paintbrush, br if only there had been a flower.