There is a moment in Alice Fulton’s Feeling as a Foreign Language: The Good Strangeness of Poetry that’s been going off in my skull like a flare. In it, she suggests: 'Each poet creates an expatriate space, a slightly skewed domain where things are freshly felt because they are freshly said.' And...

Yes now, like you, I wonder: where / is the patron saint of exiles / and far districts, this prefecture / of salt licks, pollen? Of alleys / / blue with plaques? And who among those / martyrs gives the nieces we have / yet to hold close our faces to / learn, our names to try? Who will halve...