That's enough talk about
perfect concentration.
Too much hard truth
exists here already—
correct arguments, accruing
across the noisy centuries
like arid mountainous dunes
of sandy white scruples
all collected in one or two
preposterously heavy
reference books
that cannot leave the library.
But luckily,
poetry—is nothing like that.
Poetry is vague and weak
as water;
it flutters and oozes,
and the more it gets used, the more it diffuses.
So listen, don't talk,
and just try to picture
yourself nude—all alone
in the middle of the wide open ocean,
the only such place where
so much hugeness—combined with
all that nothing—actually makes a human feel
calmer.
