When
feelings morph toward the abstract – enact a story into which 
they
might be put to simplify the mess of them, to take their vagaries 
and
put some flesh on them, transform “implied” into “exact” – 
when
what we call a poem or a painting or whatever other act 
of
making palpable what can’t be captured comes to be –
inconstancy
can seem, for moments, constancy –
.

 

No comments:
Post a Comment