Some poems sing beautiful chords: like classical music -the soaring of notes and the mellowing hum of joined words; or like a painting whose colours are dreams, whose shapes are illusory, abstract as a foreign language. My poems are full of English, the careful thumb tacking of nouns and verbs stretchy experiments with syntax; but always longing to be understood like the silence of animals or a spinal shiver or the weak smile of a sickle moon. I can’t escape meaning and drift in the tidal liquid of improvisation my words are words, rarely notes or colours; my shapes are recognizable as shadows. Sense. Always sense like I’m a scientist after all but my spirit craves untethering. Somewhere is a butterfly who will tow me away.