The words on paper speak solitude,
because that is what the poet knows –
the only certain knowledge he has.
 
The tempest has a small eye
with a small hole that lets
in what it can, from this
the rest is inferred.
 
There is violence and color,
the poet makes all he can
of the valence between the two.
 
He cannot rest,
the poet in solitude.
There is too much violence in it.
He is too much alone.