Speaking metaphorically, we might liken it
to dance or song, intending in doing so, perhaps,
to suggest that the poet
like the dancer
or the singer
must exercise an absolute control
over even the most subtle nuances
And yet must do so with such apparent ease
and self assurance that nothing seems at all
contrived or difficult,
just a few words
thrown like boards
across a hole. Not that it really matters
anymore. That curling ash. That wisp of smoke.
This wind driven
snow at your ears.
A disembodied voice that cries throughout the vast
and terrifying distances of night for release
from its suffering.
Or what is within
and yet beyond
that merely human voice but clings to it like fire:
truth beyond form yet seeking form in order to exist.
Sheer illusion. Madness.
Sleight of hand.