Alan Cordle is saddened. He is lamenting the number of people who are coming to the site that last week he quit, but like a smoker with deeply stained nicotine hands he simply could not so easily walk away from it. He asks, "Why didn't you care enough to be a part of this during the past year when you could have joined? What's the attraction of coming here now? Am I the car wreck on the side of the interstate?
Is Alan really wanting us to answer that question? I think he know the answer. He is in fact very much a part of a wreckage that is scattered across the poetry landscape and there remain many bodies yet to be covered.