You don't send any poems out anywhere in forever and you just go about reading poems and writing them, conversing with the poets & poems you like by writing poems, and the hurt of the nononos gradually, glacially, geologically fades until the mountain that once held back the inland sea has dwindled to a knoll and the sea hurries off to sea as though there were never any difficulty getting there, in fact here's all this power this power that could have been held back by nothing, power you can't imagine being held back no way, so out it goes. And you feel giddy and you think I'll never be rejected again, because the time between the last nononos and now you've gone idiotic, in a good way, you think, not so smart you can see the future realistically. Idiotic in that necessary way that allows you to do something dangerous, as though there's no possibility of being hurt and what is a nonono anyway but idiotic. It's idiocy all around, except for the intelligence of the yes, which you doubt when it happens because no one really knows. Except one knows there's nothing dangerous here, nothing.
Which is to say I sent Steve Mueske at three candles a batch of poems and he read them until he didn't want to anymore and wrote me back nonono. So I'm sending them to tryst.