Ellen McGrath Smith
THEODORE ENSLIN, POET OF MAINETheodore Enslin, poet of Maine, I am closing my eyes to tune you in,
to hear your tender buttons turning inside-out toward reflections
on water, attention to stones. Yet, even though you're using a microphone,
your voice - when it follows softly on the consonantal endings -
leaks through the trough of my hearing loss. It's the same with Robert Creeley;
you and he, on the same frequency that looks like a valley on my chart.
I close my eyes and try to listen with my heart to the Steinean insistence
of your long gray beard, try to soften my long-damaged ears from inoperable
shale to pale pink petals absorbing what sun this stringent coast permits.
Sometimes, this way, I get whole phrases, only to pass through other phases