The latest poem, There Then What, was written much later and not meant as part of the I Ching series. As it is often the case, while digging through loose papers and old notebooks, I rediscovered the poem and realized that it would fit, so I slapped a "0" to it and placed it at the top as an introduction. One interesting tidbit: of the 64 original poems, only 1 was written about my wife, and now this is the second and chronologically, then, the latest. The poem works, therefore, as a conclusion to the whole ordeal in addition to being a good introduction. The 64 do not tell a story; They are like pictures that were taken in a dark room, then scattered. You pick them up, try to figure out what happened. Is this one lady here the same one we see over there? What happened first? This one here looks significant, if you notice, there is blood smeared there on the wall. And, look, here, maybe this one doesn't belong, throw it in that pile over there.
Also, I had to rewrite 2 or 3 lines. I do this thing where I try to forget that I wrote the poem. I do my best to read it as if I am a stranger reading it for the first time. I erase all context; Limit each line to exactly what it says, no more, then I see what sort of image/ideas/story it conveys. Does it do what I intended it to do? In this case there was something missing, specifically, I wanted to make sure that the reader understood that the quilt was made from the precious few pieces of cloth that were still clean. I wanted the reader to imagine a rather pathetic (in the old sense of the word - having to do with pathos) process by which two people rummage about picking up dirty rags, hoping to find some still-serviceable pieces, to stitch into a blanket they can share against the cold. We, each of us, have been wounded. Life is a slough through the valley of tears, after all. Those experiences shape us, and something of use can be salvaged from them. We can, if we are lucky, for a bit, maybe share and comfort on our way.