I see time as a string of pauses; and matter, as a conglomeration of gaps.
Fowles called poetry an attempt to escape; basically, a suicide, or a “stop” button. Poetry is like a web of trembling pauses. Weaving it is a not so much a skill as it is temptation, tripping and pain. And every reason for doing it seems to be the last chance, a final act, a wheeze of death.
A road is a pause when you are burning to meet your loved one.
A meeting is also a pause, an eternal calm of embrace.
A night is a pause, a comma that breaks the falsity of sober speeches.
And a morning is too just resting after hundreds of miles.
Have I proven to you that the track of life is simply pauses and halts? It wasn’t my intention to drive you into despair. We should try and learn their featherlike pas, in order to see the dance amidst intervals.