Windows of airplanes, ships, cars, and even houses, things that are cloudy or transparent, all limit a poem to a fixed vision: mobile or stable.
To break through or not? From inside or outside? Hamlet never resolved it, we’re waiting for an answer too.
Shock waves, submarine torpedoes, intercontinental missiles…even earthquakes and tsunamis… nothing helps.
This morning, I find a crystal snowglobe on the bookshelf that seems to solve every problem. I tilt it and autumn’s sky falls below the glass lanterns raised high by seven dwarfs, Snow
White sleeps in the castle—I tilt it again, the world rises in blue and white. Your poetry was my cage, now it’s my universe, with a little shake, the physics of distance shifts.
Glass, chemically inert, won’t dissolve in life, but only creates a vision of fixed space. The margin of error between windows and reality—only correctable by time.