Several months ago, it felt obvious to examine myself and discover that, better than anything, I like to make things. Poems are the foremost, finest things I know how to make. At times, though, the hands yell for physicality. And I oblige, for the thrill of becoming a little factory. How often can we be certain that something is truly new, and truly our own? Only as often as we snatch up blue wool and needles, or pencil and paper, or mdf and a jigsaw, or cocoa, lemon, and poppyseeds.