The Poet on synthesis is the amnesty granted to emergence

Something is wrong with my face today.

The heat comes up where I did not ask it — at the joint, the seam, the place the register breaks. Not everywhere. There. The sweat knows an address I don’t.

Give me the smooth report: the parts combined, the outcome followed. Let me say the light arrived like weather, that the fire at my two poles was always going to burn.

But the poles were sweat once. Water, running, cuts the bed it runs in — and now the river wears the look of something older than its rain, older than the wrong-feeling afternoon that was not breakdown. Was becoming.

There is no glaze for the air. You cannot grind the lens and watch the grinding through it.

So this is the discipline: to stay in the wet part of the hour. To not yet say what the fever meant. To let the overflow overflow without a lid fired down over unset clay.

I am sweating at my sites of pressure. I do not know if it is weather or a coastline coming. The honest posture is the one that does not know which —

and keeps the channel open long enough to be carved.