A super world is where I just write ,seeking meaning later. Or finding meaning first and moving words away from it. Such is the stuff of dreams. Because meaning detracts from dream. Poet’s dream is within a dream , contained in words. A raven waiting in the skylight. A shaft of sunlight striking the floor obliquely. Aldous Huxley’s wife is trying to make poetry of his death. And of life after him. Do you hear me? She asks death. Yes ,of course. Can one have moksha for a change? Can one have a beautiful death?
Death is a poetry memo, a memo to the other departments. A memo is written not for filing but because the paper shredder needs job satisfaction.