During his lifetime the poet leans against some tree or sea or slope or cloud of a certain color, for a moment, if circumstance permits. He is not welded to other people’s aberrations. His love, his captivation, his happiness have equivalents in all the places he has never been, will never go, in strangers he will never meet. When voices are raised before him, offering honors which would bind, if someone speaking of him invokes the stars, he answers that he’s from the next country, from the sky just now engulfed.
The poet quickens, then races to the outcome.
In the evening, though dimpled like an apprentice, he is a courteous passerby who cuts his farewells short to be there when the bread comes out of the oven.
[NK]