I was grading papers this morning before I began writing this introduction, and as I moved through freshman comp narratives, I was struck by how violent the typo is and how sometimes the wrong word can create the most wonderful meanings—how the error is a break. In the long poem here we have something totally different, an immensely competent practitioner of craft, but because of the context of this morning I couldn’t help from drawing parallels. Errata: the errors and the list of corrections—corrections to be made and to be noted. From "to wander." I wonder this week how these poems of Francisco Guevara wander, their wonder, how they were meant to be attempts at correction; who Alice is/was, and if her globe can be mended. I am drawn to Guevera’s work because of his attention to sound, his phrasing. I enter the poems to be lost in that—“a river’s susurrus there in summers where…” and to come up some time later to ask what ground has been covered, what movements I the reader have made, and what has been lost. Here there is loss. A grieving. Remorse. All that, but no error.