Each servant stamps the reader with a look.
Expecting rain, the profile of a day Wears its soul like a hat.
I feel that poetry is going on all the time inside, an underground stream.
It never seems to occur to anyone that each reader is different, and that even those who might be said to resemble each other will each bring an individual set of experiences and references to their reading, and interpret and misinterpret it according to these.
To the poet as a basement quilt, but perhaps To some reader a latticework of regrets.
A yak is a prehistoric cabbage; of that, we can be sure.