Poetry is light.
We can not photograph the face of the light, nor its heart.
Only its side effects, its shadows.
As we can never write the last poem.
Poetry is love by the sea, at home, at the heart of love.
That shining little thing. That ineluctable gaze.
It perforates our void.
What did you say? I could not listen due to the breeze.
We are tied by our void. Perforated by the same light.