The other world is this world too. If metaphor is wisdom, what of ferns wearing their early sunlight like nothing else, or the high and the low pitched birds, or the deaf cat's mewling? This is where world strips down, for which there's metaphor, but none now. To record an image doesn't clothe the poem, but admits to what is here. I hear a tour helicopter, and I know what it looks at. New land erupts in sulfur steam near Kalapana; the caldera stains night sky a blotched red. The sky is blue. The spider web catches light and makes it white. Image stripped to image, point of gravel in the road after last night's rain.
--4 August 2016
[Transtromer, from Zwicky, #27]