Reading a Poetry Book

Time surfs over one page after another. I wonder about the interludes, the growth or decline of lesser or greater. A few pages stand out, creating pinnacles of inspiration, that rise far beyond the print. Other poems are workmanlike, the tools are all there, hands can be seen delving into unknown territory, yet stopping just short of any new frontier. The best are alien, strange, discomforting, distressingly real, they arrive with laser sharp pickaxes. Then of course, there are those rarified nuts and bolts all poets must reshape into the stubborn word, the perfect symbols of imperfection.