This is the shortest poem I’ve ever written: “My Sunday paper route was cut short/the day there were organs in the street./With newsreels blaring and my eyes/sealed shut, I didn’t know if they were/your kidneys or church pianos.” Despite this poem’s brevity, it plays a more significant role in my life than any of my other works. At the time this poem was published, a New York-based writer named [NAME] was looking for...