What I love about American poetry these days isn’t that anything goes; rather, I find myself grateful that so very much is possible. I’ve always been frustrated with aesthetic intolerance, impatient with stylistic chauvinism. There isn’t just one way to write a poem, and there isn’t just one way to arrive at meaning. I didn’t set out to prove these arguments when putting together this feature; in fact, I didn’t set out to do much of anything, other than gather up a terrific group of poems and poets. So here they are.