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If poetry is, as suddenly
it occurs to me it is,
a continuity - the shock
of one poem giving
rise to another, and not just
my poems or yours
but everyones',
so poetry
might be thought of
as a sea,
and the poems,
bumping one
against the other, waves
and ripples. But what then
might be
the depths,
where the continuity
is still, and what
the wind,
driving a forward
movement on the surface,
and what again
is our role - where,
if this analogy is
in any way to hold,
are we?
In the anthology
there are the poems
but where are the poets?
The poems are,
The poets aren't.

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