Feb
16
Every day, as I write another poem, I think to myself that we write poems not for the sense of it, but for its unsense, for what it leaves unsaid and thus leaves us yearning for something, leaning into the poem, to see it more clearly, to hear it more fearlessly, to make some right sense out of it, though that point never comes, and we are left with a stream of words we almost understand but cannot hold still long enough to completely define.