reading the crumbs in various manners

they are all ideas

and many come from other lands

or from this land to the other

and back again and changed

or from the shadows of our hands

or from the said unsaid chisel of the poet

the poet is cruel

but only in the sense that the violence

of new ideas comes wholly 

as the carving of a stone

whose surface has no resistance

and whose mass

is the absence of gravity

the poet is born

in the interminable waiting

before the act

and the poet is greened

by doublings

they are all ideas

but nothing itself

could be just the same