I just ate the last of Klondike bars. My lover comes in to the office, leans over me where I am working, kisses the back of my neck and asks, is it because I ate the last of the apples? A pretty moment, funny—one of shared intimacy. Why we love each other perhaps. But is it a poem? No, probably not. It was there, now gone. A fleeting moment that I can’t do much more with. And this is why I am so envious of Portia Elan’s work, its ability to transform the everyday into the holy. Elan employs an internet parlance, oft dismissed in our serious Poetry work here as low, in a way that is altogether new and exciting.