I've always felt awkward about explaining poems. It's not so much a hesitation on how to start the critique, if ever it be called such, but a reticience in dissecting it and finding empty skins, discarded pistachio halves.

We can never really get at the heart of things; once a doctor slices a man up, all he finds are more surfaces. His incisions, deeper and deeper, never tear at the curtain. To him said: I'm sorry, Sir, please go back to your seat; the backstage is off-limits to viewers. But when the opera does show, and when the man's eyes do speak, there will be nothing on his operating desk, and nothing to show for. The inexperienced surgeon's fears can never be allayed.

The diver enters the water. And the sea heals itself faster than any broken heart could. Its hands clasp in joyous leaps and forgets that any breach had been made. Within water, the diver makes masterful strokes that meet persuasive currents: he learns a secret or two. Within him, his blood converses like old friends with the water beyond. The diver lifts himself from generous water, walking away with nothing but the droplets in his skin.