The new issue of Typo is up-and-at-em. Interesting poems abound, including this one by Craig Morgan Teicher called "Like a Pebble in Space is Like a Planet," which includes this bit:

III

To speak is an incomparable act
of faith. What proof do we have that
when I say mouse, you do not think
of a stop sign? The obvious response
to such a question is that whoever asks it
is thinking too hard about a soft
thought.
          On bad days, I see
the same people passing me on the streets
over and over again, blocks and blocks
apart, and I begin to wonder if there are
only a few actors, extras, to play
the whole cast of characters composing
my life. But why such an elaborate
pageant just for me? Or if I am
one of the extras, should I be
thinking so much?