an endeavour noble in intent,
humanity at its most heroic,
the heart speaking,
the soul’s voice
and why not indeed
I read your poem.
I have nothing much to say
and yet everything to say;
writing a poem is all of those
and every real poem is
one great step for humankind in you,
an archaeology of the soul,
a self-exposure,
a challenge
so what I have to offer you
is respect. Pure, real, boundless, known respect;
you’ll read your poem back
and your next will take account of that
better than any comment or advice of mine;
we’re both poets; we both know
that we’re engaged on a cosmic task,
on the kitchen table, and it’s
no less than those images from the Hubble
of nebulae, stars exploding and colliding
and being formed; being formed.