‘Perhaps to be in between two places, to be at home in neither, is the inevitable fallen state, almost as natural as being at home in one place.’ —James Wood

When I was thirteen, in the summer of 1994, the fragments of Comet Shoemaker–Levy 9 slammed into Jupiter over the course of a week. Like a lot of young anoraks, I was excited by this. A world vastly bigger than my own, subject to forces I could barely comprehend, and then only by comparison with terrestrial examples (x tons of TNT, y number of Hiroshimas): that’s the stuff! I knew that what I was seeing was important for science, but it was not directly relevant. The explosions in the atmosphere of Jupiter were exquisite and amazing, but, importantly, the explosions there had nothing to do with me. I didn’t live there. I could relax as I watched.

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Berl’s Brooklyn Poetry Shop, one of the only all-poetry book shops in the nation—nay, the world!—had its triumphant grand opening a weekend ago. The day was full of cheer, liquid cheer, fellowship, books and chapbooks, and some two dozen readings. Everyone went home happy and fulfilled.

But I missed that. This is not about that.

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