life is long between the desire and the spasm.
Birth, and copulation, and death; that's all the facts when you come to brass tacks.
Oh, do not ask, 'What is it?'/Let us go and make our visit.
Poetry is not an assertion of truth, but the making of that truth more fully real to us.
Words strain, Crack and sometimes break, under the burden, Under the tension, slip, slide, perish, Decay with imprecision, will not stay in place, Will not stay still.
We might remind ourselves that criticism is as inevitable as breathing, and that we should be none the worse for articulating what passes in our minds when we read a book and feel an emotion about it, for criticizing our own minds in their work of criticism.