The truest writers are those who see language not as a linguistic process but as a living element.
Memory that yearns to join the centre, a limb remembering the body from which it has been severed, like those bamboo thighs of the god.
Damn wind shift sudden as a woman mind.
There's always more to see.
Time is the metre, memory the only plot.
The voice does go up in a poem. It is an address, even if it is to oneself.