Poets offer the world in a conceit. The space of a stanza may contain histories and geographies and etymologies and the dying breath of empires and a passion for peaches or the night sky and the skeletal remains of love. Their words provide an elusive syntax for beauty, for truth, for our incomprehensible spirit. Our poets are makers of meaning in a chaotic universe, lending it a metaphysical rhythm and metre. We find pleasure in their intricate structures; we glorify them for introducing us to our souls. But when they overwhelm us with too much meaning, we erase them.
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