On Poetry as Capacity

It’s morning in your head. Is it the same morning outside? The same for the robin? The stray dog? How about the refugee? Alright, I’m teasing. Leave phenomenology aside. Let’s say the issue–“morning ness” has to do, not with witnessing, but with capacity–the places you’ve made for the new day in your understanding. The early light is not lonely, nor does it emanate from angels, nor is it strictly about angstrom units. Inside you it’s a Rococo picture frame of competing interests, a design for optimism or joyless finger painting. Part of memory, part a direction from someone off stage, who loves you when you think hard.