Please mind your gaps, says the poet-gardener of gaps. Poems are gaps between words, their long stretching spaces adding further gaps. The gaps are my emptiness between words like the milk between the stars on a dark night.
O chestnut tree, are you the leaf, blossom or the bole? Asks poet of a chestnut in a jam jar, planted on the very day of his birth. The chestnut dances in the wind and the poet does not know dance from the dancer.(Yeats)
The Mayor cannot transform his bad wheat. A bad wheat makes a bad bread .
The Mayor of Casterbridge(Thomas Hardy) is my re-read. I am trying to mind the gaps.