The truth is that the poems are ecstatic.
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.
Any serious attempt to try to do something worthwhile is ritualistic.
The voice does go up in a poem. It is an address, even if it is to oneself.
There's always more to see.
Love After Love all your life, whom you have ignored for another, who knows you by heart. Take down the love letters from the bookshelf, the photographs, the desperate notes, peel your own image from the mirror. Sit. Feast on your life.