Reality Is Not Simply There, It Does

Each Arrow You Shoot Off Carries Its Own Target Into The Decidedly Secret Tangle

Only One Thing Remained Reachable, Close And Secure Amid All Losses: Language. Yes, Language. In Spite Of Everything, It Remained Secure Against Loss.

Black Milk Of Daybreak We Drink It At Sundown.

With Wine And Being Lost, With Less And Less Of Both: I Rode Through The Snow, Do You Read Me I Rode God Far--i Rode God Near, He Sang, It Was Our Last Ride Over The Hurdled Humans. They Cowered When They Heard Us Overhead, They Wrote, They Lied Our Neighing Into One Of Their Image-ridden Languages.

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.