words...To lure the tribal shoals to epigram / And order.

Manifesting that order of poetry where we can at last grow up to that which we stored up as we grew.

All I know is a door into the dark

Sink every impulse like a bolt. Secure
The bastion of sensation. Do not waver
Into language. Do not waver in it.

Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests; snug as a gun.

In poetry, everything can be faked but the intensity of utterance.