(Guest post by Annie Kim)

It’s a shameful thing for a poet to admit: I hate walking. I am what you’d call a bad walker.

Sure, Wordsworth lay blissfully on his back in an empty field, staring at clouds. Wallace Stevens composed whole poems in his head as he strolled to his job each morning at the Hartford Accident and Indemnity Company. I, though, have never been moved by a walk to do anything other than walk faster. Why walk when you can run? Drive?