a poem: either weather or war bulletin; broadcasts news from a nearby front; clashes, thunder, sound and fury. Even in its quietest utterance it tells something of a disturbance in language, of a moving of lines, of a tension. A storm, coming. A battle, about to end. There is no way to avoid awe: a real poem exposes you to the bland light of humanity, twists your neck and scalds your eyes with the stark truths its verses howl.
I suppose it may also prove a leaf in a stream of water, and cross one’s field of view for a short lapse of time; then vanish, as all things pass ultimately. But then, I like river pebbles better. They can weigh for ever.