Who Is Invisible Enough To See You

Spring: Trees Flying Up To Their Birds

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.

With A Changing Key, You Unlock The House Where The Snow Of What’s Silenced Drifts. Just Like The Blood That Bursts From Your Eye Or Mouth Or Ear, So Your Key Changes. Changing Your Key Changes The Word That May Drift With Flakes. Just Like The Wind That Rebuffs You, Clenched Round Your Word Is The Snow.

German Poetry Is Going In A Very Different Direction From French Poetry.... Its Language Has Become More Sober, More Factual. It Distrusts "beauty." It Tries To Be Truthful.

The Poem Is Lonely. It Is Lonely And En Route. Its Author Stays With It. Does This Very Fact Not Place The Poem Already Here, At Its Inception, In The Encounter, In The Mystery Of Encounter?