Reachable, Near And Not Lost, There Remained

You're Rowing By Wordlight

A Poem, Being An Instance Of Language, Hence Essentially Dialogue, May Be A Letter In A Bottle Thrown Out To The Sea With The-surely Not Always Strong-hope That It May Somehow Wash Up Somewhere, Perhaps On The Shoreline Of The Heart. In This Way, Too, Poems Are En Route: They Are Headed Towards. Toward What? Toward Something Open, Inhabitable, An Approachable You, Perhaps, An Approachable Reality. Such Realities Are, I Think, At Stake In A Poem.

Poetry Is A Sort Of Homecoming.

In The Air, There Your Root Remains, There, In The Air

Count Up The Almonds, Count What Was Bitter And Kept You Waking, Count Me In Too: I Sought Your Eye When You Glanced Up And No One Would See You, I Spun That Secret Thread Where The Dew You Mused On Slid Down To Pitchers Tended By A Word That Reached No One’s Heart. There You First Fully Entered The Name That Is Yours, You Stepped To Yourself On Steady Feet, The Hammers Swung Free In The Belfry Of Your Silence, Things Overheard Thrust Through To You, What’s Dead Put It’s Arm Around You Too, And The Three Of You Walked Through The Evening. Render Me Bitter. Number Me Among The Almonds