(no subject)
why, when beginning to read a poem, do i shy away? it's almost a feeling of vertigo; the brink of language darkly promises infinities. actual immersion into it is cold and slow. it's a standing on the wet, packed shore a month before summer. i want to jump in whole bodied or avoid it altogether, but i musn't do either. each inch of my body must enter in succession. each inch must feel for itself the words pouring coolly over, shock subduing only as i continue. once i'm in and i have adjusted to the temperature and have dived down to grasp paltry handfuls of the sandy floor, i must get out again. and wait in the sun, stretched out, in my room, looking out the window at the street below. and then return to the page, and enter again.