In round sunsets and rounder moons when the razor’s edge of pain tips sanity? How does the disenfranchised mind produce? Why don’t we know how we know until we’re told? How do I turn in the direction of my own footsteps’ echo? The fearful noise behind tells me to embrace the spitting tantrums and pain long enough to see patterns to tie enough word-rug yarns. For what is poetry but using words hard? So hard that they are compelled to mean at least twice what they would have meant in prose. They are cryptic, without explanation. Poetry can reshape the structure of language thought.