Tuesday, December 18, 2012
More than half a year has passed. The last words of Walt Whitman are still moving like characters in someone else's dream. Time is sensory, not so much an illusion, as a partial illumination, a window showing us just a thin slice of all that is outside. The way eyes are constructed to detect only a sliver of the known spectrum, and even less of the unknown. The way the dying ear drum detects only the voices that move along its private wires. We may fill in the empty space with ghosts. Take a minute - no more, no less - and write some words about the past year. Let that be your poem.