"[you fit into me]" by Margaret Atwood

you fit into me

like a hook into an eye

a fish hook

an open eye

"To Be Alive" by Gregory Orr

To be alive: not just the carcass


But the spark.


That's crudely put, but...


If we're not supposed to dance,


Why all this music?

when a poet reaches out for ideal language to craft a poem, it is very much like trying to shape water or the wind: impossible; words are never perfect, and we seek to chase better ones. The love affair of the poet is a form of Eros, in the classical Greek sense: a desire shaped by lack.

some micropoems strike me as being epiphanies without journeys: the work delivers some form of insight, but I read it having not enjoyed the journey towards that insight, and so come away less impacted than I want to be.