The poem followed rules, to a mastery, thus, much
celebration. I desired it to lash out, to un-satchel, to die and resurrect—yes!
like the author of Christianity: I desired much of a simple, complex poem—with angry
potentiality. I imagine more as an entrée, minds needing conversion, old
and restored Plymouths, sparkling Oldsmobile(s), a day meant for mourning a great
poem. I say it was motion, tolerant, sassy, edgy,
and sentimental—by poetic rules, 10 syllables, 11 syllables—all the way down
the page. I must have gasped on
account—the air-warn seas, those imaginary rites in skies, like a magnet to a
resistant magnet—while it remains in control. So neat a poem. I desired to read
more: The discombobulated universe, The whales most study—unaware of
proximity, The doctors we trust, Better, The reasons we adore in hope of being painted.
