>> this is from a permanent thing, a poem called a poem for olivia grace, my oldest and first daughter. she was in my office when i was a newborn and my office was also her bedroom and the crib was pushed up against the desk. i was asking myself, what do i want for this little girl? what i want is a life that is lasting, not for a long life span, not only, but a permanent worth and value. of course, contemporary technology gives us the thrill of the ephemeral and i wanted to draw her out of that self enclosure and into something permanent. i wrote this poem, a prayer for olivia grace. >> there is little room left in this house for poetry or in this world for any lasting language for the managers and sales reps in the office who've ticketed their holidays are childless and looking to five days of sunshine and liquor. they care for neither old books or a young daughter. somehow, near me, sleeps an infant daughter who grows, still, to the cradle sounds of poetry with eyelids dropped in the promise of sleeps liquor. she knows nothing of language. nor, did i when i was childless, preoccupie