A writer must have a deep patience, a profound desire
to remain human. He propels his paragraphs slow
and voluminously along the ocean bottom like a school
of whales. All by himself, the writer is communal.
He reproduces himself as chapters. He gathers against
continental shelves his tribal relations,
his wavering wives, his folio babies, plump and nursing.
He arrives in layers, weightless with words...
A poet is not a writer. Streamlined and arrogant,
he lives at the insistent edge of his being, every word
flashing above the blue marine like a flying fish.
He keeps to the ceiling of his wit's end, and there,
tensed between two elements, he beats his fins into wings
to leave the deep salt sea forever, to fly out of it
and alchemize into a beam of sunlight. The flying fish's
deepest wish: to be caught and swallowed mid-air
by a golden eagle.