Poetry as prose

When things are touched by words, they are no longer simply there, but rather gathered round what has been lived or experienced on them in a whole past. That's why all that host that lies in wait there and is moved by words as leaves are moved by the wind can act as the funds for a 'not yet' that keeps some words for an ever again all-demanding listening. But so things are not. That's just a rêverie, the unreal. It's a loosening that we are quite free to see as a less exacting activity for bohemians or as the highly structured way of lying down and walking the roads of our possible, of a space.