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Transom:
These poems seem to dramatize an internal stability in the face of an unfixed world. The leaves all change, the promises are untrustworthy, but the self behind them remains. Do you perceive your lyric “I” as Romantic in the Wordsworthian sense, a site of tranquility animating the world?

Savich:
I’d probably say the self is animated by what isn’t fixed and so itself becomes unfixed, unfixable, transfixed, as in the example of the earliest flipbooks. You paint what you can’t mend, you could patch the stucco or live in the house longer. And yet, yes, you are living there, stable enough to receive mail, which is better than fixing/solving things. But I think any sense of tranquility comes – or should – not from countering external weathers but by being out in them (as though we have a choice not to be. . .), in line for instances. Could the result feel like “stillness” as a result of resultant companionable motion? Usually.

Transom:
In your poems, the distinction between a straight line and a tangle collapses: “I have been practicing a knot so complex the rope goes completely straight at times.” If complexity leads to simplicity, what’s the virtue of knotting up in the first place? 

Savich:
I don’t know if it’s a virtue because I don’t think we have a choice: the rope is already knotty. Some art tries to deny this, sure, preferring the endless interstate to the sudden straightaway amid swerves. But I love the advent of unexpected ease: instead of a knot, take this straight rope; instead of swimming, throw your trunks in the river. Maybe the virtue of the tangle, the balling up, is in letting go – submitting, surrendering, letting the coiled gnarl regain another shape – enough that something else can happen, something more significant than a more seemingly direct response.