"Beyond the Everyday Mess," Aradhna Tandon
	David Cummings First Letter to My Reader You are not they I went to them with my words after many years of working the dark finally back with my prize they were having none of it they had no heart-need it was best left out of things too simple too easily thought through educations wasted and they alone had a right to the words that could tell the story almost three years gone yet September comes again the heart feels its silenced anguish and they search too for words but slant coy clever brilliant cool they will have none of difference they wait numbed want what looks away and it's true they have killed me off words no longer rise from roots like spring sap mysterious faithful that occasion of grace granted time and again undeserving always and more so now because I took ambition along I did not go to my father's house empty-handed I came bribing with poems forgetful of you I left in the fields where poems grow wealthy left you for old loss held for me in a distant house they turned me out and truth is I wrote always for them wrote my heart for people who despise such words and I admit to you my shame you whose name I can never know