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I am asking them, as I am continually asking myself, to imagine a heart that feels a connection to the hearts of others, even others you do not know. I would like to think that this is what nudges me forward, more than some mythological concept of “hope.” In the silence of a room after the reading of a poem, when the only sounds are small gasps and sniffles, I can say to myself that we are all carrying a unique ache, or a unique memory, or a unique desire that the poem ignited. And I would like to know about it. I would like to know what few inches of the wretched world can be made into an adequate space for you to mourn, or to make a plate of food, or to dance in your living room, or to bury something you’ve finally decided to put down.