Both of us were slated to read, on the Starbucks Literary Stage no less. (Locals-made-good cast long shadows in Seattle.) The book fair proved intense, and Charles and I took up where we had left off during prior exchanges. (He is prone to offhand observations such as: “Most poetry is academic, in that the answers to the questions it brings up are already in the public domain.”) Four days later we weighed down the compact American Pottsmobile with printed matter and along with his yoga-besotted protégé Andy Glass made tracks across the Cascades towards his home base, for my inaugural reading at the grand opening of The Temple Bookstore and to open the doors of The Temple School of Poetry, where I would be the first “visiting poet.” (Before this drive, to me the Northwest had consisted of the coniferous strip west of the Cascades. The eastern reaches remained mythical -- unforested lowlands with the occasional mountain range, copious fresh water arteries, few residents and serious heat.)

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