Everything is so CSI these days. I think about what is under my nails, what crumbs I drop where (and what that says about me and my eating habits), where my hair falls, and the type of dirt at the bottom of my shoe. This is good for a poet: to think CSI, to focus on the details. At least, it is good for the kind of poetry I am passionate about. The wonderful everyday details that make up a life, that give meaning to all things. The pattern of frost on the windshield. The rough white of winter skin.