When I back away from a poem I back away at that exceptional moment it begins to come together under my attentions and other slants of propitious light….When I cried so much as a child, nearly daily until forth grade, it was often because I had been touched by something or demanded by something and had felt the sudden reality of my presence and then the deep shame–particularly in an embrace with a kind of alarmed adult–that theretofore I had been something (and on purpose, by choice), something other than alive.

Brian Blanchfield, Proxies: Essays Near Knowing, “On Completism”