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.
Waiting for a butterfly
Published
Out of the Cave 
Slow tow. I like sense.
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lovely poem but I have to disagree with the central image: there is music in your poems, certainly my favourite ones of yours, maybe not of the classical kind but they have the beauty and vigour of the vernacular, finely chiselled, a special hybrid beauty with pulse and colour: they are fully alive; classical poems, the type you speak of, have their beauty too but —I am sure not all will agree — of the museum or chamber piece kind —
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That is a wonderful comment. Thank you! I guess sometimes I read beautiful things and have no idea what they mean. And I envy the freedom of the author in not caring whether he/she is understood but simply writing a spring of images. Or maybe they do care and I just miss the point. Hard to say.
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