Killing time Sunday evening before going downtown to a dinner party at The Kitchen, thumbing through the March edition of Poetry. I checked the table of contents for a writer I recognize; the only one I saw was Tony Hoagland, whose poem, "Jet," is in the book that Sara Bader and I have coming out next year. One line in Hoagland's "Bible Study" jumped out and slapped me around the head and neck: "What kind of idiot would even think he had a destiny?" That struck me as entirely true. What do you think?