Poets evade the quick-fix of blasé like a false-messiah.
We want to observe the slow rewind of cliché like a river
back to its glacier-source. We'll wait, eyes not averting, except
for the descent of unsophisticated language itself; the gushing
current of normality slamming the ice-burg's stance, shattering
the placid disposition of the ocean's conference room.

Hesitance is not about loss or fear of going down with the poem.
Literary pyres burn across the water daily; victims of a poet's
impatient desire to be heard. It's about watching the circling hawk
of étude, waiting for the right line no matter the flood or fire
that may bring death to both. It's the red-hot irony of the Phoenix
scattering the ash of its own suicide: Resurrection; Conquistador
of nothing new, something to that extent.

Look, i know it sounds absurd but here you are,
checking for pulse; listening for breath.
~