What else but a poem in a state of tension. A crack in a poem. Lines seen through doorways, sidewalks, arches, lips. A hint of the poet's viewpoint. His or her choices may not resolve the mystery of the words looking back at us. Pre-determined meaning and method are not what the poem I am currently writing is interested in. I step out the door ready for whatever might arise; a shift of mind, a shift of vision, a confrontation, an embrace. It implies another kind of anti-authoritarian project. Yet the fractures include the poem painting the sky with my skin. A taste of the assembly and disassembly happening inside the poem.
This is what to expect from the apex of the foretaste of an egg. I hurry down the alley of radical optimists. I step over a scattering of wisteria. The beer at the tap gets mad at the tap. Jutting out from there is a route to the fractal vigor of a breath-stopper. The whole thing is indexically Adornean, on a somewhat more variegated design. What defies the shadowed fallacy is the intense pleasure of writing a poem; the foundational perambulation of its composition. Perhaps circumstances will afford us a memorable denigration of canonicity. The story may begin again with bowler hats falling from the clouds. Listen: the knitting is deepening. The poems oblige my ankles. This is the art of screwing up discretion. Pure boost: the catastrophe of ephemera. This is the bare minimum one can do while writing a poem with a cracked looking glass. The poem being written attracts what it needs.
Read the full essay on the Poetry Foundation website.
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