Hanging out with the fictionauts and the prosers, he fears, may have damaged his poetry. These days, instead of concentrating on linebreaks and quick-and-deadly imagery, he worries about commas and semicolons; thinks in dependant clauses; ponders parallel constructions and parenthetical prepositional phrases. When he writes, he no longer recites each phrase aloud to hear how it sounds. Instead, he declaims each piece from start to finish, paragraph by dreary paragraph from beginning to end to ensure that it makes sense; conforms to the norms of grammar and logic. He puts himself to sleep with it. He fears he puts everyone to sleep.