“We understood | this was the way grief works | to return us to ourselves” ~ Lawrence Raab, from “At Evening”

No Title/No Date
by Richard Diebenkorn

                    

The Poem That Can’t Be Written

is different from the poem
that is not written, or the many

that are never finished—those boats
lost in the fog, adrift

in the windless latitudes,
the charts useless, the water gone.

In the poem that cannot
be written there is no danger,

no ponderous cargo of meaning,
no meaning at all. And this

is its splendor, this is how
it becomes an emblem,

not a failure or a loss,
but of the impossible.

So the wind rises. The tattered sails
billow, and the air grows sweeter.

A green island appears.
Everyone is saved.

~ Lawrence Raab

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