The poem is like a little machine, usually a productive one. It should be able to produce beyond itself, for the poet reaches into the dark and grabs, go on, ask them what they write about, they may answer, but a simple interrogation of the text will uncover wild paraxoysms!
What help are they, the ‘poets?’
So should this little ‘worker-part’ somehow try to bridge our ‘subjectivities’, or revel in intimate bodily notes, offering no immediate noose? To fellow a poem like a friend, or – an enemy?
What is the line traversed? between sense and nonsense, rich talk and poor talk, pain and pleasure; oh here comes that geography of doubles and its poverty; run, hide, flee!
What does it matter, poetry is written because it simply must be!
The title is the explanation and it explores most things.
The commentary has already become a tyranny.