What little we know of Tennessee Pink we have pieced together, from bathroom walls, American folk songs, and the names he shouts in the rare moments of fitful sleep he suffers in the night. And from his poems, which mention the darkness of days in caves and crumbling houses, the exhaust of men and ancient machines, Crimean lips and the shipwrecks he has scavenged. We often think he is uncomfortable on land or above it. He would be more at home with a shovel in his hand or a tiller, but he is ours for now, perhaps by some spell or great debt, he is held here. He will read to you but be wary. Tennessee has traveled in many directions and knows where much is hidden, he is at ease in the darkness and will be happiest to find you there, going along with him, toward some perfect wound, enclosed in a tiny, imperceptible blossom, making pain.