Broken from break,

awoken as six o'clock sunlight sits in the awkward, acute corner. Disoriented with my body, my bed at an odd angle to room, to Yale, to universe grace of Stiles' sadistic architect. The time is jet lagging behind my mind. Rhythms off, meter strained, lines of flight won't scan till iambic returns in one of my old, tired, used-up, dried-up references. Wordsworth and Annabel alluded to some Milton sonnet I supplied. Reciting it in the context of class, seeing the poem inside of the Prelude, the rhymes reverberated at new frequencies. Meaning added through new associations (I lost the game) each time poem invoked. When I consider how my light is spent, ere half my days in that dark world and wide, and that one talent which is death to hide... Nature of beauty is that it is never spent. Poetry not a currency that dries up. Stockmarket of words always gives good returns on investments. Meaning multiplies, infuriatingly or delightfully, depending on your point of view. Weighed with gold of all their connotations, words might also limit in their approximations. Nobody's perfect. Imperfections are interesting. Can't care for Homer's gods, just so much frozen immortality. So forgetting fear of making mark that might ruin the sculpture, refine your tools. Chisel away at the blunt block carved by words' first estimates of emotion. Integrate and differentiate in order to move always towards, towards the limit of expression. I know no better way. Because being without efforts at expression is lonely. Writing is an invitation to the party I want to be at. An invitation to play in streams of ideas, swim through thoughts, and change their course with the motion of my strokes. When I consider how my light is spent stroke after stroke, constantly thinking, feeling, thinking by feeling, deep joy comes with the revelation that this river refreshes, that meaning and words will not run out or run out on each other, that I am nowhere, and show nothing, and am endless. I am not spent.