Poems like to have a destination for their flight. They are homing pigeons.
I suppose one has to remember that 'life' is important too, though it's something I forget in some moods, everything except work seeming like an interruption or really non-life.
Light is snow sifted / To an abstraction.
Go rich in poverty. Go rich in poetry. This nothingness is plentitude.
Pain can make a whole winter bright, like fever, force us to live deep and hard.
It feels a long way up and down from zero.