"He has a theory, of course, that the poem, if it’s just in a book, exists like a musical story that wants to be played. It’s just on paper, and it doesn’t exist unless someone performs it or performs the score with an orchestra or on a piano or a ukulele or something. And a poem doesn’t have much existence unless someone recites it, someone reads it to himself or aloud. Preferably read it aloud to somebody, because that’s when it comes into existence again, after just being recovered from storage, kind of, by reading it. But whether it does all the things that he intended is another question." —Phliip Whalen via
What If Light Isn't Travelling Either?
"dusky pink rose
in a dark green vase
my tender gift
for mom to behold at supper
spoon after spoon, slowly"
—@evecastle.bsky.social
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