Hanging by the bridge, we lost the caricature that we thought is everything to have in our time. Then times are smooth and we dedicate poetries to people; the times are turbulent and then we throw away our verses. In the fringe of companionless, stormy nights and repeating anxieties, poetry, wonder, creation can rise like bullets emerge from a truculent strafing. To be back on track, we must walk a step. Poetry is travel. When one weeps in the corner over the known contiguity of rats, there is no chance for poetry.