Understanding Poetry

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
    of sound
    and movement.

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.

Hear it: