“Everything is in the poem,” the ant

explained to the anteater.

“How do you mean… everything?”

“In each poem there is a structure,

a very deliberate structure

drafted by its author,

but whose meanings can only

be understood by allowing the words

to manifest in breath and bone.”

“So you mean to say the poem

is a riddle?”

“Not entirely,” said the ant.

“Some poems are riddles. And conversely,

some riddles are poems. But not all poems

are riddles. And consequently, not all riddles

are poems. A poem is never entirely

about itself. You must understand:

there are whole worlds between words.

A poem is as much about what is within

as well as the thing it is without.”

The anteater stroked its chin

and wondered about this.

“So you mean to say that the poem

is not only about you and I

discussing what a poem is

but also that what we are

and what we stand for

within these lines

are things that

will never

be mentioned here.”

“Yes, in part that is true.

But you must also understand,”

the little ant stressed, “that it continually

escapes us. The poem can only make its point

by proving that its point

is not really the point.

It’s only a hint at how big

it really is.”

The anteater nodded.

“Then perhaps I should

end it right here.”

2009