Before heaven will suffice, I go listening for a word, As the son of a sailor who grew up on Lake Erie, J.P. White is given to sudden violent storms and rough water that test and shape a man's grasp on the living. No matter how far his poems travel--Russia, Bermuda, Italy, the Dominican Republic, Germany, Mexico, France, New York City, Africa--water...
Its oily meat, its newborn orbit. Come with me, now.
--From "Inside Hell's Kitchen"