Don’t be a poet. You’ll have to wander through firewood past it’s usefulness and sit next to overturned rowboat beneath single lightbulb halfway up cedar shingles.
“We turn to the arts in order to learn what we don’t yet know. We practice the arts to find that which we don’t yet know.”
(—Jane Hirshfield in How Poetry Can Transform Our Lives, New Dimensions)
I don’t know why there are so many races, languages, customs and outskirts of villages and towns over and over in dusk light when full moon is fazed by smoke from faraway fires.
Gate at end of day is closed and sentinel to road where so very few passing cars go into night.
Do not write poems.
Instead mutter prayers you cannot believe in. They will sustain you with their orphaned intimation of a once pious sense that all is connected and some knew such an intuition to be true.