The waterfall calliope extravaganza of words is the point. The gathering of pieces, places, creatures of our earth is the point. The deep, almost desperate love of language is the point. The poet's faith that language is enough is the point: an end keeps coming/or a series of endings never resolves//three cranes wear time down to the bones of the road//it will all go to good use. Oh, my goodness. I think of Bachelard proclaiming that real poets...
Related Subjects
Poetry