Book Synopsis
I met Alison a year ago, in a bitterly cold New England winter. I wrote a poem a day for the first 25 days and nearly one a week after that. She has invaded my writing in a way no one else has ever done, as if I've been consumed by her very existence. For our anniversay, I complied nearly 50 poems that weren't the worst and presented them to her in a collection I called "Alison, My Aim Is True." (She'll glare at me for making that particular Elvis Costello reference, but I couldn't not take that oppurtunity when it presented itself.) In 23 years, I have never felt this way, not even about the girl in the first grade who gave me an acorn under the oak tree in the school parking lot. I swore that was love, all that time ago. How mistaken I was.