Words are often thrown around and littered. But a poet treasures them, collects them, and plays with them. And grateful words sprout like grass, and with them grows a completely different world, one in which everything is completely different from what we're used to. There, everything sounds, everything sings—commuter trains, fences, aliens, and zucchini. There, ghosts study scientists, commuter trains run to the sea, and terriers take their owners on visits and to a tail show. In a poet's world, everything can be fixed—simply erased from a painting. And when the painting is finished, you can run, jump into it, and stay there. Such miracles.