My own interest in recent years has been in a kind of very short poem that is more amorphous—one that is neither pin-neat and didactic nor wearing Japanese geta on its feet. Such poems have a gait that feels to me like interior thought itself, at its widest and most permeable and also distilled to its most essential form by pressure of condensation and sound-awareness. These are qualities that all good poems require and inhabit, of course—but taken so much to another degree that they change their nature yet again. Whole fields of saffron pollen can be held in a one-ounce glass vial, acres of lavender in a few drops of oil. The same distillations occur in certain poems’ words.